


For Safekeeping

by borealgrove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: sshg_smut, Dark Comedy, Dealing With Trauma, Epistolary, F/M, Filigrets, HP: EWE, Masturbation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8133893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borealgrove/pseuds/borealgrove
Summary: Was this what they had fought for? The right for things to go back to how they had been before? So that it could all happen all over again?Hermione returns to Hogwarts intent on finishing her NEWTs, but instead faces herself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [SSHG Smut fest](http://sshg-smut.livejournal.com/9848.html) on LJ, inspired by bonsaibetz's prompt _Severus has voyeuristic tendencies. Hermione likes to be watched. Hermione pretends she doesn't know she's being watched. Severus understands the game and abides by the rules, until he decides to break them_.
> 
> The first 4 chapters—the original length of the story—are able to stand alone as a PWP.

## Part I : Endangered Species

The damned classroom, its ceiling arched and oil-stained like a grimy church, had not been touched by the war. When he sat behind his desk, stalked the length and width of his old haunt, lectured and snarled, it was as if he were back under deep cover, his entire life structured and illusory.

His sense of sickening guilt over what he had instigated as a young adult had turned into a less gut-churning feeling of obligation at some point during Potter's first year. Seeing flashes of his old bully in Harry's behaviour as soon as he'd come to Hogwarts, seeing how uncanny the facial resemblance was, had rather lessened the guilt. It was much easier to distance himself from the remains of his feelings for Lily when he could see the likeness of his tormentor so clearly in what he had before then considered her child. And so, by the time Voldemort had managed to resurrect himself, Lily had been turned into a greying memory, less a person than an ideal. He had carried his obsession with the caricature of her into the Occlumency lessons he had been forced to have with Potter, the invasion of his privacy an impetus to finally revisit memories he purposefully turned away from.

He recalled the pain, the torture of feeling he had to bend to fit the idea that Lily had of him, the older they grew. He had so much anger, was raw with it, and from this she would distance herself. He couldn't have stayed unaffected by the cruelty of his father and his peers forever, could not have continued to curb the unpleasant parts of himself, the downright ugly bits—he had noticed the way she had begun to pull away from him, the way she avoided saying certain things, or spending time outside of class with him. Severus' anger had got the better of him. He was a sombre child, a bitter teenager, a vicious young adult.

Lily had possessed a greater depth of kindness and understanding than most people, where he was concerned. But the longer they stayed friends, the more Severus realized that she would not look directly at him, see him for what he was, confront him even. Until the end, of course. He had had to explode before she would become angry, look directly at the source of her discomfort.

Sooner or later, she would have left.

Severus could see it when he walked the lengths of his worst and best memories of her. One day, she simply would have faded from his life forever, a slow, drawn-out abandoning of their friendship. She would not have been cruel. She would have simply left without resentment, without confrontation. He had known it then, he just hadn't wanted to live through the quiet rejection.

So he had struck first, felt the vicious pleasure of twisting the knife, the horrible pain of destroying his friendship. A display of power, of self-assurance, to convince himself, more than anyone, that his anger at Lily could be self-righteous. It was a regret he would carry with him always, even if it no longer hurt him. He should have let their friendship fade.

But he had a taste for ruining things. He was good at it.

He cared so little for the company of other people in general—why should continue to feel regret at the way his life had turned out, at one single isolating mistake he had made as a teenager? Why not instead accept who he was and use it to his advantage? The pride of his two self-appointed masters had required that he fit their assumptions about his character, who he was at his core. To Voldemort, he had been a man obsessed with achieving his petty revenge against Dumbledore and the memory of James Potter. To Dumbledore, he had been a man obsessed with Lily, tortured by his unrequited love for her. They never deigned to look further as long as he matched the tone they expected from him. They both had him all figured out, of course. How could they not? They were in a league of their own.

Severus had counted on it.

Had drank in the cold sense of superiority he felt whenever he had steered them, just so. 

Vows, marks, morals—whatever Voldemort or Dumbledore each felt bound him firmly to their side had eventually become irrelevant. They had no longer owned him: if he so chose, he would kill himself. He would continue to spy, pass information back and forth, influence the undercurrent of the slow-boiling war until he tired of it. He had endured with the mantra of _just one more day_ , sustained himself on the ideal—a new ideal—of both dying _and_ living out of spite. He took enormous risks and drank in the adrenaline, the pure gratification of knowing himself superior, essential to both sides. Near the end, Severus had lost the thread of himself a few times, his sanity a bit touch-and-go. Just one of the casualties of such a drawn-out war.

He hadn't wanted to live past it, really. It had become his life—his whole life. Rarely had he imagined living happily-ever-after, or anything beyond it at all: miserable child he had been, miserable bastard that he was, those sorts of visions were not easy to come by. Alcohol seemed to bring them on occasionally, but they got little more than a snort of derision from him before they were dragged back under the tide of drink.

So he hadn't been very happy to wake up after the war was over, to find out that some horrible busybody of a person had decided they could save his life. He had intended to die. To hold the secret of the Elder Wand's true master behind Occlumency walls until he took his last breath, taunting Voldemort with the knowledge that he had committed a fatal miscalculation in trusting Severus Snape. Making a show, for the first and last time, of mental force as he pushed Voldemort's desperate probes into his memory aside, crashed his way into his former master's thoughts instead. Severus had savoured the look of astonishment that had twisted onto Voldemort's face turn to fury as he had ordered Nagini to attack, the only way he could manage to interrupt Severus' vicegrip on his memories.

Severus recalled in perfect, agonizing detail, his final moments, gurgling out blood and grating laughter at the look on Voldemort's face as he realized that Severus would lose consciousness and die before any part of his mental defence could be breached. The burning hatred that had been directed at him, a hatred born of being humiliated by someone Voldemort had always considered beneath him. Severus had lost consciousness with vicious satisfaction, the purpose of his life fulfilled.

Only to wake up in the hospital wing and discover his death ruined.

"Ackerly," he snapped. "You will slice more carefully if you do not want to lose a hand."

The first year did not say anything, though the hand that held the knife he had been quartering Pixie Trumpets with did flinch rather badly. If he didn't lop his hand off, he would lose it in an explosion borne of badly-prepared ingredients. Rather a difficult feat, to make a shrinking solution explode, but he had incredible faith in Ackerly's ability to make such a miracle happen.

Little cretin.

The wizarding world, post-war, was a flurry of activity—celebrations, memorials, press, photos, memoirs, tributes... It was awful. Severus had found himself in the very odd position of being lauded as a hero (thanks to Saint Potter, the prat), while also being avoided for his former status as a Death Eater. Perfect strangers would give him nods, but nowhere he might actually have had any inclination to work would let his Curriculum Vitae rest on their desk for more than a few seconds before disposing of it as though it were a stinkbomb about to go off. He received a generous amount of offers, but the grand majority were for jobs of questionable repute, whose duties held little of interest for him. So, back to Hogwarts he had gone, accepting Headmistress McGonagall's grudging offer with matching enthusiasm. He really had been well-rid of the place.

Or so he had thought. Hardly a week back at the school had led to the irksome discovery that he felt "at home" in the dungeons, and "comfortable" in his old classroom. He would never admit to such out loud. The headmistress would laugh herself hoarse at his misfortune. Or at the irony of his good fortune—one of the two.

"You should have already added your final ingredients by this point," Severus drawled, though of course he expected this from exactly none of them. He simply enjoyed seeing them sweat. Such weak constitutions, the lot of them.

What Severus had come to realize after the war, upon spending time back in the classroom, was that he genuinely enjoyed being unpleasant. He enjoyed putting others on edge and being on edge, himself. He liked to watch others fail. He enjoyed the sort of tension that was generally agreed to be unbearable. What he hated was the way that the media (and those who had been colleagues and associates in the past) had begun portraying him after he had woken from what should have been a fatal injury. They told him he was no longer shackled, that he was free to live the way he so chose (he had chosen to die). They commented on the tragedy that was his life, his lost love (no doubt, that overly-romantic interpretation could be attributed to Potter). They projected onto him what they themselves thought they might feel. Perhaps when he had been younger, when he could have actually used their support, their compassion, their assumptions may have been accurate. But their attempts at understanding now were laughably off the mark.

He didn't think himself depressed. He hadn't lived with regret in a very long time. He didn't particularly hate himself. He deserved to live. He simply wasn't interested in the New World. There was nothing for him here. It was too quiet; he had nothing to occupy his time except to teach and avoid the public... which was what he had managed to do before the war had ended. Except he had also been maintaining his cover as a spy. Simply teaching, in his little bubble of pre-peace Scotland, was not enough. He felt like he might be starting to go stir-crazy.

He could no longer sleep.

His head was so empty of problems and observations that he was unable to analyze until his brain switched off from sheer exhaustion; he constantly fall asleep now by clearing his mind and relaxing. He was beginning to develop a bit of a paunch, too. No longer having to run for his life or dodge curses had caused him to go soft, quite literally. And the lack of stress had caused his skin to clear enough that someone at the staff table had had the gall to say he was "looking healthy". It was truly abominable.

"Anyone who has not set a sample of their potion on my desk by the end of class will receive a failing grade," Severus informed them, matter-of-fact, as he stalked back to his seat at the head of the room. He always enjoyed the end-of-period scramble.

\--------

Shortly after the start of term, Severus had taken up his old sport: prowling the halls. Of course, now, rather than making his rounds in order to give his legs something to do while his mind went to work on his latest dilemma, he made his rounds in order to try and escape the yawning, empty pit that was his brain. Comparatively, at least. Catching couples sticking certain appendages into other cavities was particularly enjoyable, he could admit, but it happened far more infrequently that one would be inclined to think. Spontaneous fighting, even less. And the satisfaction of scaring the pants off of a student wandering the halls alone was significant, but short-lived; not to mention, it had become a rare occurrence. Either he had lost his touch, he had found himself thinking one night, or the majority of the students had suddenly turned rule-abiding.

It was while he had been turning that unpleasant thought over in his head that he had stumbled upon the school's resident celebrity reading in a disused classroom, a fist-sized blue fireball crackling away on the armrest of a squashy chair—both of which he assumed she had conjured. She sat in a position that should not have been comfortable, but which must have been; she seemed boneless, her ever-wild tangle of hair creeping over the side of the chair, her spine curved strangely. She rested one leg on the floor, the other thrown over an armrest. Her nightdress was bunched just below the waist, her outer robe trailing on the stone floor. He could see her plain-white kickers.

It took her a moment.

"Professor!" she yelped, nearly falling out of the chair and onto the floor. Her hair passed through the flame but did not catch fire; he grudgingly admitted to himself that it was a nice bit of charmwork.

"Miss Granger."

"I was just—it's quiet," she began, her voice sounding as if it were about to launch into a babble, "I'm of age, I'm not bothering anyone, just reading—that's all, just a spot of research before bed... I've been finding it difficult to sleep lately and I thought—well, no one is really using this part of the castle, it's almost like being in the middle of nowhere and—"

"Miss Granger," he tried again, tone considerably more discouraging.

She pressed her lips together, chastised.

"While there is no rule against—" He paused, searching for the right word, and then pressing disdain into it; " _returning_ students being out of their quarters past midnight, it nevertheless sets a poor example for their younger counterparts." He gestured minutely at his side. "Nor does it reflect well on you to sit with such impropriety for all and sundry to see."

"With _what_?" Hermione squeaked, incredulous and forgetting herself for a moment.

"Impropriety, Miss Granger." He gave her a level look, enjoying the ease with which he was able to push the right buttons. "Impropriety."

"I was sitting and reading," she retorted, anger beginning to steamroll her incredulous tone. "Hardly causing mischief! And I can assure you, I was not putting on some sort of display." She began to sport a bit of a scowl. "I chose this spot precisely _because_ it was so removed."

"Be that as it may, Miss Granger," Severus drawled, not particularly caring for her explanation (or any other she might have given), "if you do not wish to lose points for your house—"

"Points," She echoed, cutting him off bitterly. "You _really_ think I care about points?"

Severus drew himself up to his full height, and gave her an awful sort of smile. "Perhaps not." He took several steps towards her and clasped his hands behind his back. "But you care deeply about the opinion of the Headmistress. I don't imagine she would be particularly happy at a sudden loss of points from her former house; nor do I expect she would be impressed with your behaviour here tonight were I to explain to her what I had the misfortune to stumble upon."

Hermione's expression turned thunderous, but she said nothing. The armchair and blue flame winked out of the room, plunging it into darkness. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and then, "goodnight, Professor," as if it had been forced through barred teeth. She took her leave.

\--------

After having returned to his quarters, his mind having raced the whole way, Severus had absently undone all his buttons and left his cloak, robes, and underclothes in a wrinkled pile on the rug next to his bed. He'd been far too distracted to do anything with his wand other than drop it on his bedside table, where it made a small _thunk_. He got himself under the covers (pulling with some annoyance at the over-tight way the House Elves had tucked in the sheets) and cocooned himself on his side, staring, unseeing, at the opposite stone wall. At some point, he had fallen asleep, but before that—he had been turning his strange meeting with Miss Granger over in his mind, wondering just what in the hell had gotten into her.

His prevailing feeling, while getting dressed the next morning, had been regret for having revealed his presence right away. He could have trailed her over several days, pieced together her reasons for being in that particular disused classroom—had she been meeting someone? Had she really been there just to read? He would never know, now. After all, without Potter and Weasley back at the school to influence her, Severus found it unlikely that she would get up to any more rule-breaking. Not that she had necessarily been breaking rules... but she did care a great deal about what the other professors thought of her and he expected his threat would be more than enough to warn her off of future nighttime wanderings. It was a bit of a pity.

Severus took a sip of his morning tea: bitter, murky brown.

"I had the funniest star chart land on my desk yesterday," he could hear Aurora saying in a hushed voice to Rolanda and Filius, "the cheeky little bugger had a very interesting interpretation of the positions and star configurations of Ophiuchus and Scorpius—to my eyes, they looked like a cock." Rolanda and Filius tried to muffle their snorts; Severus smothered an errant smirk with another sip of his tea. "I gave him detention, of course—could barely keep a straight face. _Honestly_..."

"That is the sort of mischief I don't mind seeing in the classroom," Filius chuckled, mopping up the egg yolk on his plate with a chunk of brown bread.

"Well it's harmless, isn't it?" Rolanda remarked, finishing her coffee in high spirits. "They don't want to hurt anyone, just draw dingleberries all over the place. If I weren't the professor I'd be right in there with them, holding a couple of bludgers up to my crotch and giggling like mad."

Filius just barely avoided a guffaw at the head table, and Aurora shook her head with a wide smile. Rolanda shrugged with her typical grin.

His morning brewing class with the NEWT students was typically the least eventful (or interesting) of his week. All of them were at least competent enough that he could trust they would not inadvertently cause a meltdown or explosion; they all had enough common sense to realize when they needed to ask questions, or for help. Not to mention, all the years spent in his classroom had rendered them all somewhat jaded where his attempts at intimidation were concerned. For these reasons, he spent the majority of his time in NEWT-level brewing classes behind his desk, grading assignments.

"Excuse me, Professor."

Severus looked up from the red scrawl covering the parchment before him. Her hand was in the air, but stayed steady—it no longer waved and trembled as it always had in years prior.

"What?" A good night's sleep had no bearing at all on his manners.

"I've just realized I forgot my chicory root, sir." Miss Granger shifted in her seat slightly, falling into a bit of a slouch. "May I take some from the school stores?" she asked, glancing down at her workbench. She sat at a station in the second row instead of her usual spot, front and centre. Then he realized.

"Sir?" She prompted again, after there had been no response.

" _Fine_ ," he enunciated, drawing out the word. He looked back down at the essay on his desk as if nothing had been amiss.

Except she had parted her legs at some point during her question, and she hadn't been wearing any knickers. He had seen everything—well, the lighting in the classroom was dim, and her skirt and the desk had cast an awful lot of shadows... but he was reasonably certain it hadn't just been a trick of the light. No undergarment to speak of. He could hear her moving bundles of dried herbs in the store room and his fingers tightened on his quill.

Granger must have known. It couldn't have been accidental. She had arrived early (earlier than was usual for her), and sat at a different workstation. She had "forgotten" an ingredient as an excuse to get his attention (Severus could not recall the last time the know-it-all had come unprepared to a class), and then she had deliberately looked down, as if inviting his gaze to wander. It must have been deliberate.

But _why_?

He had absolutely no idea.

Severus shifted in his seat, much as Granger had done, in order to relax the taut fabric of his trousers. Of all the things he had expected to experience during his morning potions' class, arousal had been—well, not on the list to begin with. He looked up again to watch Granger return to her seat (she appeared focused on her cauldron, a stasis spell having frozen it mid-boil), and when she sat, her thighs parted again, giving him an even better view than before. If Granger was at all aware of what she was displaying, she made no indication; there was no knowing smile, no attempt to catch his eyes—nothing. She didn't appear to notice what she was showing off, so focused was she on preparing the borrowed ingredients she had fetched for the assigned potion. But she must have known. She must have. Severus felt a bit of a thrum in his chest at the increase in blood flow; Granger had thrown him for a loop. _Him_.

Severus applied himself to finishing his grading for the rest of the period. He did not want it hanging over his head that evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner had not ended quickly enough for his tastes, though it rarely ever did.

He had glared up and down the high table with impatience, his mind whirring too loudly to remind him that he might be hungry; he had left behind a plate that was still a third uneaten, his gravy-coated mash in particular having been forked and flattened to a pitiful degree. At one point he had noticed Filius giving him a curious look, but he had squashed the Charms professor's potential concern with a forced smile that a lifetime of experience had taught him would look more like a grimace. While his spying days may have been over, he would likely never lose his talent for managing the attention of others: Filius turned away with an uninspired, barely-there smile of his own.

Severus had left the head table at the first opportunity, slinking through the side door, his cloak whipping behind him. Over the next hour and a half, as the Great Hall had emptied of students, he had roamed the corridors, his cloak quietly brushing past the heels of stragglers and causing all sorts of amusing yelps, jumps, and flinches as he strode away. He caught one pair of industrious Hufflepuffs with their hands past waistbands (before sundown—the dunderheads), and another pair of students (sixth years) who had surely been groping one another before he had turned the corner. To the Hufflepuffs, he took away points, gave detention, and hinted at Pomona perhaps hearing of the incident. To the other pair (a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw, if that had any relevance), he merely deducted house points for _lack of visible decorum_.

As the torches in brackets along the walls became the only sources of light, however, the daylight well and truly spent, Severus began to lose what little patience he had managed to squirrel away after his morning class. His thoughts kept drifting to Hermione Granger. To goading her at her out of bounds reading spot—to her seeming ignorance at the intimate view she had presented him with only hours earlier. His attention rested somewhere between the two memories, worrying at a spot that should have bridged the unexpected gap in behaviour. No epiphanies resulted. He could conclude only one thing with certainty: he wanted to catch her again.

The night wore on with precious little to occupy him. He had snuck up behind a group of three students and addressed them, making them all jump and cry out in alarm (they hadn't been breaking any rules—it had been for his own enjoyment). He had insinuated, to a still-impressionable first year, that tracking mud into the entrance hall would cause permanent damage to the castle's stone floors and thus would result in a horrible punishment (Minerva would have words with him about the misinformation before the week was out, he was certain). He had confiscated an erotic pamphlet from a fifth-year, and enjoyed the look of horror on her face and that of her friend's when he had flicked it open and raised his eyebrow at the two of them (a banishing charm had followed his dry, unimpressed expression).

After an hour of no one else encountered in the halls (save Aurora heading down to the kitchens for a late snack), Severus should have called it a night. Clearly, all of the little monsters that had intended to break rules already had done and were now well on their way to sleeping (unlikely, but as he had no current evidence to the contrary...). The corridors were dead, and yet Severus continued to walk them. He had become somewhat unhinged after the war ended—he told himself this, but acknowledged, very far back in his mind, that he had undoubtedly been unhinged before, during and after. He paced, and strode, and stopped, and started. Not searching for rule breakers, anymore, on this late hour (though he fed himself this likely story), but hoping to stumble upon Hermione Granger in some new, compromising position.

A page turned.

It should not have, considering the section of the castle that Severus had decided to walk through, but in the thick silence of disused classrooms, crumbling walls, and empty living quarters, the sound was clear and unmistakeable.

He stopped, his wand out at his side, listening, breathing evenly, his heart jumping once before steadying. He didn’t want to be noticed this time, regardless of whether it was her. Though he was quite certain it was; he had a feeling. Circe—a _feeling_. The end of the war truly had unhinged him, if he was beginning to have feelings again. If he studied the feeling from a certain angle, it even had a certain hopeful shape to it, a stale waft of optimism.

Severus cast a wordless disillusionment charm over himself and then something to muffle any sounds his clothing might make as he walked. His nostrils flexed along with the sneer that briefly alighted his features and he resisted the urge to snort in disgust. Hope. His boots went untouched: the dragon hide they were made of had been tanned over the fumes of a silencing solution set to simmer for longer than the recipe usually called for. As a result, the solution became inert and the leather (already somewhat attuned to magic to begin with) was imbued with the magic from the potion. His boots, incidentally, did not give off any sort of magical trace, but muted his footsteps just enough to ease his efforts at disappearing. They wouldn’t prevent a kicked stone from making noise when it cracked against a wall, of course, but as long as Severus stepped carefully, his approach generally went unnoticed.

Severus had always been a careful man.

The temperature lowered drastically when he inched past the doorway he had been making preparations in front of. Well. _Doorway_. That was one way to put it. It was more of a hole. It had been a doorway, once. Now it was a warded exit—beyond which the castle was a ruin, its ancient magics flayed and leaving the even more ancient stones exposed to the weather. Several vicious duels had been fought among the corridors, classrooms, and living quarters that once stood there. The stones that had made up the former Charms classroom burned with cold to the touch—Filius still hadn't been able to come up with a counter-curse. The walls and floor were scorched in places and full of blast holes. The ceiling had caved in. The tower suite that Rolanda had occupied since becoming a professor, several floors above, had buckled and crashed to the grounds after a nasty skirmish in the corridors outside the former Muggle Studies classroom. Innumerable shortcuts and secret passages had been cut off. Paintings had been utterly destroyed—priceless works of art, irretrievable memories of people who had once lived.

Severus remembered walking through the wreckage the first time and coming upon a famous suit of armour that had been twisted to scrap. Then schoolbooks that had become wavy and bloated after one too many summer rains—still dotted with blood that wouldn't wash out. It was a little pocket of war, much like his classroom. He liked it there, not least because so few people cared to walk through it. It was cold, it smelled burnt and a little sour with the force of the curses that had been thrown around the area—and it was mostly unprotected. The board had voted to postpone the restoration of that badly-hit section to expedite the school reopening; but more than that, the section felt vile. Even the most annoying of the student miscreants tended to avoid passing through it.

Wind pushed through the cracks in the outer walls (what was left), barrelled along the craters in the floor, whistling as it scraped through to the other side. Severus massaged a wordless warming charm into his bony fingers.

Another page turned.

He began to see blueish light shifting along the ceiling, deeper at the junction of the hall towards the old Muggle Studies classroom and a small store cupboard whose door looked as though it had been hacked at with a giant axe. There was a large splotch on it, with four thick tails, dark brown. Small mystery what had caused that.

The hall that had once led to the classroom was now a dead end. The tower stairs up to Rolanda's front door, so to speak, had crashed down, cracking open upon impact and fitting the corridor (and the other rooms it had bisected) with a completely useless string of odd teeth. One could climb up and along the now-useless stairs to reach the grounds proper, where Rolanda's old sitting room had been coughed out in the crash. She had salvaged a lot of the furniture, but what was left gave her once-home the air of a haunted museum.

Severus walked along the stairs now, following the light, careful not to dislodge rubble as he stepped. The blue light grew more intense at the mouth of a storeroom partly caved in, and he could hear crackling, as though the light were being fed by wood. It wasn't. It was a little fireball on the armrest like the last time, of a couch, rather than an armchair, and Hermione Granger, its architect, slouched there and studied an old piece of parchment. He stayed where he was, still disillusioned, and merely watched as she observed it a moment more—before folding and tucking it back into her bag with a soft snort of... well, he wasn't certain what. She then picked up a book that had been sitting beside her (he recognized it as the one she had been reading the night before) and settled back onto the couch—partly. She sat back up almost immediately in clear annoyance when the blue flame had come in contact with her head—Severus watched with (grudging) amusement as Hermione palmed the flame and tossed it towards the other end of the couch, near her toes. As a Muggle might toss a remote control.

She sighed and settled back, apparently content with the change in configuration. Several pages were turned and Severus continued to watch, not entirely certain why but unwilling to look away. She turned to her side and read awkwardly for a page or two, then lay again on her back, bending her knees up so that Severus could barely see her forehead, her halo of frizz. She contorted, reaching down to scratch her ankle, and then let her bent knee flop down over the edge of the couch, the hem of her nightgown, which had been tightly fitted over her knees, slinging back towards her belly. Severus nearly grunted in shock but instead did something nearly as foolish: he gripped the wall beside him and caused a small amount of rubble to fall.

Hermione's eyes snapped to where he stood, disillusioned, and her legs shut with a soft slap, her book thumping closed against her chest as hands shot out to wrap around her shins.

_Merlin_. She hadn't been wearing knickers. Again.

He watched her flinty eyes start to relax, breath stalled in his chest, and felt himself becoming aroused. She settled back again and picked up her book, giving it a small _tsk_ of annoyance (a page had probably dared to bend or crumple in the fall). She fidgeted several times, the pages turning steadily, before letting her knee flop down again. The blue light left nothing to the imagination and Severus felt twenty years younger, intrigued and annoyed with himself, both.

Hemione made a huff of disbelief and turned the page, reaching down absently to scratch her thigh. She stretched her still-bent leg out over the arm of the couch and then retracted it again, yawning audibly. Then Severus watched the hand that she had scratched her thigh with slide down further to her vulva, watched her crook her index finger, rub several small circles over her clitoris. His mouth went dry.

Since when had—

What was—

Should he be—

Severus made no sound, nor any attempt at extricating himself from the view.

Her dry sigh of contentment, the clearing of her throat, were almost uncomfortably intimate. He watched her slide two of her fingers around the opening of her vagina, noticing how wet it already was, transfixed at the moisture being spread around, higher. She rubbed her clitoris again, lazy, still mostly focused on her reading.

He swallowed, very aware of how erect he was and of how much he wanted to touch himself.

Hermione slowly slid a finger into her vagina and breathed in deeply; he could hear how slick her finger was, even more clearly when she added a second with a small sound of contentment. She pulled her fingers out to rub at her clitoris again, shifting on the couch so that she could hold her book and pleasure herself more comfortably.

Severus reached down—as quietly as he could manage—placed his hand onto the lump in his trousers and bit back a groan of pleasure at the immeasurably small action.

Wind howled, barrelling against the outer walls and shattered mortar hard enough that the air shifted in the store room—Hermione shifted too, glancing up from her book at the ceiling. She wore a small frown. Bracing her open book against her thigh and the couch, she blindly reached down into her bag and got out her wand to mutter a spell. Some variety of warming charm; two fingers on her other hand had slipped back into her vagina, as if for safekeeping. She poked the wand back in its place and picked up where she had left off in her reading. The book had slid down a little with her receding nightdress hem, down towards her chin, so that Severus could see something of her expression now. He watched her eyes follow the lines on the pages, the relaxed skin of her brow—knew that she was truly reading and not attempting to be coy. Though her fingers still stroked, and rolled, and rubbed at the glistening skin of her vulva. Just par for the course on a Thursday evening, apparently.

His fingertips slid along the fabric of his trousers, feeling out the head of his penis, the warmth of his arousal.

Severus listened to the soft sucking sound of Hermione's fingers stroking the inside of her walls; her deep satisfied sigh was a prod that made the muscles in his stomach contract reflexively, his teeth grind together.

"Ha!" She murmured at one point, with derisive amusement, "Imebecile!"

And Severus' body went hot and then cold with shock. But it was just the book. Whatever she was reading—she put it down. And made herself more comfortable, spreading her legs wider, settling further into the couch, her other hand reaching down to spread her labia wide.

She had begun making small noises then—almost too soft to hear, just loud enough to fuel her own pleasure. Severus watched her and mirrored her with tiny, halting movements, the way she rubbed and massaged her clitoris, her eyes completely closed in enjoyment, though she looked almost as though she were in pain, offended. She kept licking her lips. She convulsed slightly, the pages of her book pinned, nearly ripping, under her elbows. Severus squeezed and stroked at his trapped erection with less caution when he figured she wouldn't be opening her eyes.

A whimper of a moan, and she was coming with a shudder, her body folding inwards, nearly rocking with the force of the orgasm. Severus gritted his teeth, watching, one hand balled in a painful fist at his side. He very badly wanted to fuck her.

Or to fuck someone, at least.

But probably her.

Hermione turned heavily onto her side, still trying to catch her breath, and closed her thighs over her hands, fingers still in and around her vagina. Calm and relaxed, she lay that way for several minutes, staring at the wall opposite, at the grin in the split-apart tower, at him—and not at him. Then began to sit up. Wiped her wet fingers on her thighs. Put away her things, threw on her heavy outer robe, palmed that strange, mesmerizing blue flame of hers. Severus continued to grit his teeth and command himself not to move, to give himself away. Hermione banished the couch and picked up her bag to leave, holding up the flame to see her way out.

She passed so close, he could smell her still-humid fingers.

He listened to her footsteps receding, being muffled and then cancelled out by the raging wind just beyond the walls. Finally, when he was certain she was gone, he lurched back to life, almost stumbling into the storeroom he had just watched her exit, off-balance with the strength of his arousal. He strode over to a partially-concealed corner, undoing the buttons of his trousers as he went, and pulling his erect length out. His disillusionment charm failed.

His hands were shaking with anticipation and he almost laughed at himself, almost, but the moment his fist closed around his penis, skin to skin, any amusement slid off of his features, was pushed to the back of his mind. He jerked himself off, felt the pressure build immediately, effortlessly, yanking on him like an undertow, his whole body moving with it. He was grunting audibly and he didn't give a damn if anyone heard him slamming and grinding his pelvic bone against his own wrist while what he had watched replayed in his head.

And then went further, into imagination.

Severus ground his teeth and grimaced with pleasure as he came, painting the gritty stones before him with semen. The whole section was a cursed ruin anyway, why shouldn't he add to the mess? He kept his eyes closed, panting through the last convulsions in his balls, his hand still wrapped loosely around his penis while he continued to imagine he was still buried deep inside her.

The last time his heart had rattled his chest to such an extent, he had been about to die of a good, spiteful laugh.

Severus opened his eyes and looked down at his palm, clammy now with half-dried, half-congealing sperm, and chuckled at the sight. He shook his head. He still felt aroused—not hard, he was calming down—but _aroused_. Mind and groin both. He muttered a _scourgify_ under his breath to clean up his hand and then after some consideration another at the wall before him. He did tend to lose his sense a little bit when under the pull of an orgasm. No benefit in giving Minerva more ammunition against him (though he would have enjoyed the scandalized tirade). He fixed his pants and trousers and turned around, still feeling warm and blissful, to see an old folded piece of parchment where the conjured couch had been earlier. He could have kicked himself for his lack of attention.

Severus cast several diagnostic spells in quick succession, more out of habit than actual worry, and then approached the intriguing slip of parchment, picking it up with one smooth movement.

It was him. A dot in the centre of the page, neatly labelled and wavering. He took an experimental step forward. The dot followed. He looked around, scanning the room, and then back at the parchment, now recognizing the crude lines and shapes as rooms. A hastily-drawn map. The image suddenly disappeared and was replaced with the phrase _glad you came_.

It was Hermione Granger's damned handwriting.

Severus barked out a laugh.


	3. Chapter 3

Going back to Hogwarts hadn't been an easy decision or a natural one. Hermione had made several lists, had held several debates with herself (complete with silent gestures and expressions that Harry and Ron had taken in stride, bless them), and had finally made her decision by flipping a coin and then in a fit of pique choosing the opposite of what the coin had told her she should do. She still had something of a bone to pick with Fate.

The choice may have been easier if Harry and Ron had elected to join her, but they hadn't. They'd had a good laugh about that, actually. And a few arguments. _We're finally free_ , Ron had protested, just shy of incredulous, _I'm not ready to go back to rules and homework_. Hermione had no problem with either of those things—in fact, she rather enjoyed them. It was just, their months on the run together had given her some perspective. School was important, school was enjoyable, but it was not life. Life was Harry and Ron, she rather thought. It was pushing forward, no matter if the deck seemed stacked against her, it was patience, and not having all the answers. She was not especially good at two of those things, mind...

Talking with Harry had just confused her further.

_Hogwarts really is my home_ , Harry had begun, in one of his pensive moods, _but I just really need to separate myself from it, you know? I feel like if I go back right now I'll never leave_. If she'd wheedled enough, he would have joined her, she knew. Harry would have left Ron to his sort-of-early emancipation and probably always regretted it. Her talks with Harry had formed the largest of the counterweights to the possibility of going back to Hogwarts. He wasn't persuasive—he didn't seem to have much interest in trying to convince her one way or the other. Hermione just enjoyed sitting and chatting with him. That was the extent of it.

Ron was like her brother—she absolutely loved the twit, and would do anything for him, but he drove her up the blasted wall just as often as he could made her laugh. Harry on the other hand, was her best friend. She felt like she could talk to him about anything, and usually did. He wasn't a kindred spirit by any stretch of the imagination—neither of them were—but he did always try to meet her halfway.

The thought of going back to Hogwarts and not being able to stay up late in the common room to talk to Harry was a bit hollow. Ron wouldn't be there either, to shake her loose from her scrolls; to make her laugh and then stomp off in annoyance. Some of her worst days, her loneliest days, had been spent doing schoolwork and not having to fend off the boys' notorious rule-breaking or whatever they felt would be in her "best interest". She was not certain Hogwarts would actually still feel like home without them there.

She had been right.

But it wasn't entirely awful—they had insisted she take the Marauder's Map with her ( _live a little, Hermione!_ ) and she had been pleased to find out that she and her peers would not be subject to the same curfews as the younger students. Harry and Ron had complained that that took all the fun out of sneaking around. Tossers. _Loveable_ tossers. They both had been rather good about sending and replying to letters, even if they were brief. She went to stay with them at Grimmauld Place most weekends, and they came to meet her in Hogmeade for dinner and drinks during the week sometimes, when she was able. Hogwarts, for her, was a shadow of its former self in the absence of most of her peers, and it was always difficult to make her way back after a weekend with Harry and Ron, but with every class she took she became more certain that she would have regretted not officially completing her studies. Of course that didn't change the fact that the majority of her classes were boring.

_Boring_!

She found herself becoming restless in the middle of lessons sometimes, unable to focus on taking notes. She didn't put nearly as much effort into her homework, her assignments, as she once had, finding her thoughts wandering and then her feet following, if she had been sitting and writing for too long. She had begun to think that it was because she was no longer under the heels of a constant threat. 

Before, everything had felt dire—danger had been a daily reality. Harry, even her and Ron, were constantly brushing up against death, running headlong into situations that any sane witch or wizard would have steered clear of out of terror. Hermione had grown up on a steady diet of adrenaline, fear, and courage. Well, sometimes it was more stubbornness than courage. Now it was all gone. All the pressure she had felt to keep her grades up, to prove herself, had muted to almost nothing. There was too much _time_ in a single day. It didn't feel like an accomplishment to get all her homework, her studying done early. It simply made the day seem to drag on, after it was finished. The castle felt even larger than when she was younger, far emptier than it ever had been. It weighed on her, made her feel lethargic, uninterested in her notes, her assignments, her reviewing.

She felt like sand slowly spilling from a canvas bag.

So she had started spending her nights wandering, the Marauder's Map her constant companion. She stopped to read whatever book she was carrying out of curiosity or pleasure; to look out the window and let her thoughts turn inward; to nap or sleep in a place where she felt at least somewhat exposed, because it felt normal. Clearly, she was experiencing a crisis of some sort—they all were. Her, Harry, Ron. All in very different ways, of course. They did talk about it. Just—perhaps not as much as they should have.

There were some things that Hermione was certain even Harry would not be able to understand, after all. She wanted to run. No... that wasn't quite it. She wanted to be pursued. Or caught. Something. The world around her felt staged. She was _safe_ , her professors kept reminding her, all wearing smiles mired in varying stages of sadness; wasn't she _lucky_? How great a gift they all had, to be able to move _forward_ with their lives. How they had sacrificed to get to this _shining_ future.

Not him.

He was a relic, Professor Snape.

Attending his potions' classes was stepping back in time, his unpleasantness and black humour pickled just in case the _shining_ future had ever come to pass. Professor Snape did not seem to give a fig that the war had ended, no sir. Being exonerated of his crimes had not made him kinder, or more grateful. The end of the war had not softened him or relieved him of a great burden—not that Hermione had noticed, anyway. He was the same horrible, unfair man he had always been.

She began to look forward to his classes, and then follow his walks on the Marauder's Map, holed up in whatever corner of the castle she had picked for the evening. The fascination turned into a bit of an obsession, she eventually had to admit to herself. It was like old times. He still wouldn't give her the time of day, let alone his approval, and like a moth she kept burning herself upon his cold gaze. Hoping each time that she would feel some small warmth reflected there.

Weeks passed. She got worse.

No longer content to just watch him on the Map, no longer able to raise her hand and wait for a miracle, she began to coordinate her nightly wandering with his. She would plant herself along his path somewhere, to sit and read, just to be in his periphery. Sometimes he made a snide remark, sometimes he strode past in silence—other times he would change direction at the last minute, and she would return to her dormitory feeling annoyed. There came a point during these encounters (or lack thereof), where she reasoned out a vital piece of information: she was attracted to him. It made perfect sense—and Hermione had always had a fondness for perfectly sensible conclusions. The anticipation, the desire to be in his presence, the constant thoughts about him... this realization allowed her to begin viewing Professor Snape in a wholly different manner.

She began to fantasize about him catching her, scolding her, and then falling prey to his own desires. Hopelessly romantic, but it incited a lot of masturbation before she fell asleep each night, imagining him watching her. Then it was no longer enough. Her fantasies spilled into the classroom, and she would watch him lecturing, but imagine him fucking her instead. It was becoming a problem (she kept running out of clean underwear).

So she decided to stop fantasizing, practical young woman that she was, and start doing something about her frustration. She'd _make_ him notice. First her knickers, then a lack thereof. The worst case scenario was that he would insult her (nothing out of the ordinary); she could handle that. She truly couldn't imagine him complaining about it to Headmistress McGonagall and anyway—she was pretty certain McGonagall would take such an accusation with a heavy dose of scepticism. Unfair, perhaps, but Hermione, her head clouded with unresolved lust, was not about to take up arms against that particular injustice.

She began by subtly exposing her knickers to him one evening, her indignation at his veiled threat only half feigned. _Impropriety_? She'd give him impropriety. Hermione hadn't planned on attending his class the next day without anything on under her skirt, she had thought to move much more slowly; but she had lost her patience. She wanted more—she wanted to shock him. She wanted to make the Potions Master's brain glitch, just for a split second, at a lack of parameters with which to form a logical conclusion about her actions.

But it was better than she had imagined. She had seen the moment he had made the realization, his fingers putting just a bit more pressure on his desk; felt the pause with her whole body where he had forgotten to answer her question. After the class she had escaped to the nearest loo to lock herself in a stall, rubbing her clit until she came, lips pressed together as she rocked and shuddered over the toilet. It still hadn't been enough.

The whole afternoon, she had fought with herself: what if he had no interest in her? What if her behaviour was off-putting? What if someone else saw her? What if Headmistress McGonagall found out and did not take kindly to such an exchange between professor and student?

But then:

What if he had liked what little he had seen so far? What if he felt the same pull that she did? What if he followed her and watched? What if he began to view her as an adult rather than a student?

The positives and negatives should have cancelled each other out, but that day Hermione had been operating under an unfamiliar set of universal laws. Ones in which desire had a much stronger gravity than potential consequences.

She had left her room that evening with a crude counterfeit of the Marauder's Map, and the full intention of making Professor Snape catch her in the act.

\------

The Potions Master was making his rounds of the desks, raising his eyebrow or sneering into cauldrons that held contents he found lacking in some way. Which was to say, all of them. They were attempting a challenging nerve regrowth potion as an introduction to two brewing sequences that were often used when unstable ingredients had to be combined. Most of Hermione's peers had already proceeded with condensing ginger root vapour into a separate cauldron where they would let it simmer; in the meantime they would need to carefully burn the wooden nails of a Bowtruckle to a fine ash. Hens' teeth, which dried out almost immediately (rendering their magical properties inert), would need to be covered in the powdery ash as soon as they were removed from their charmed bottle. If done correctly, and in time, the ash would lock in their moisture and they could be added to the ginger root base, the combination of which had significant regenerative properties.

The potion wasn't so much difficult as it was methodical; badly brewed, it simply wouldn't do anything—or else give the drinker a mild stomach ache. They weren't to progress to truly volatile or dangerous brews until just before the end of the fall term. 

"Miss Granger, ahead of her peers as usual," Professor Snape remarked in a low drawl, just beside her. He made it sound like a defect.

Hermione didn't respond, stirring the half-infused base with a forced concentration; the professor's cloak was touching her exposed ankle. Surely not deliberate, but it made her want to jump out of her skin all the same. She imagined Harry and Ron's reactions: _Are you mad? What the bloody hell is wrong with you?_ And then failed to imagine what she could possibly reply back. _Was_ she out of her mind? She'd skipped her knickers again this afternoon, had felt the damp chill of the dungeon classroom creep past her uncovered knees and up to the junction of her thighs. And for what? The attention of a man that had been unfair, unpleasant, and even cruel to her for as long as she'd known him? Yes. She wanted to raze him to the ground, feel power over him, and feel overpowered by him. She wanted to carve out a piece of his vitriol and let it lull her to sleep.

The truth was, Hermione Granger wanted to jump out of her skin all the time, not just when Professor Snape's cloak had touched her ankle. The world was too calm, too subdued, when she still just wanted to scream, and run, and fight. She hadn't finished with that part of herself. She hadn't liked it. But nothing had felt real after the last of the fleeing Death Eaters had been brought into custody. The end had been too abrupt. _There there, you're safe now, it's over, you're free_. She still felt so much anger, so much grief, with nothing to channel it all into. She had been tortured, people close to her had died, she had _sacrificed_ —it all just sort of sat inside her, a constant film and radio play on loop. At least when she had been throwing herself into danger her life had felt valuable. Completing her NEWTs was the right choice and what would be expected of her, but they felt worthless. Was this what they had fought for? The right for things to go back to how they had been before? So that it could all happen all over again?

Everyone was sleepwalking.

Peace. Victory. Hope.

Propaganda—that was all it was. The war would happen over and over again, would start right under the noses of those explaining that they had all stopped a great evil. And everyone would be shocked and terrified, the public forums echoing with, _how could this happen_? How could it not, when they carried on pretending it wasn't inevitable, when they stopped their fighting before it was actually over. The war hadn't ended. _It hadn't ended_.

Professor Snape swept away from her desk without another word.

The war now was ideological. Society had to change fast enough, completely enough, that the same issue could not be fought over again. But after Voldemort had died, so many had assumed that his ideology had died with him, that suddenly Wizarding Britain was a haven for Muggleborns, that blood purity was no longer important and that what remained of their society was accepting and open. It wasn't. No one cared to look in the direction of their treatment of other sentient magic-users. That was much too difficult. They'd already begun to change a little of their collective prejudice towards one group—wasn't that enough? Didn't they deserve their gold stars for that?

Even Harry and Ron seemed to have relaxed a little, though they were not at all interested in joining the rest of society in resuming daily life. They had refused to pursue higher education or to get jobs for the moment, choosing instead to travel, to laugh, to drink away the horrors they had been through. She couldn't bring herself to blame them. She also couldn't identify with their overwhelming need for avoidance when all she wanted to do was confront.

"Would anyone be willing to escort Mr. Macmillan to the hospital wing?" Came Professor Snape's dry appeal. Even Hermione looked up, only to see a confused expression on her classmate's face. "There appears to be something wrong with his eyesight. The instructions clearly state that the potion should be a deep orange at this stage. Mr. Macmillan's is blue."

Ernie Macmillian visibly winced and then closed his apparently-unwell eyes for a moment, reopening them to look back up at the Potions Master's unimpressed face.

"Dismal." Professor Snape turned away.

If there was anyone else Hermione could be certain felt the same frustration she did, it was Professor Snape.

No, never mind, not the same frustration. He'd watched the first war lay low and turn into the second, he'd grown up in the aftermath of Grindlewald's failed coup. His frustration must have long since turned to bitterness. He had no reservations about making clear his disdain for society or the individuals that made it up. He routinely committed acts of self-sabotage—at least socially—and yet also seemed to possess a staggering will for self-preservation. Otherwise, how had he survived so long, being a spy? Hermione still hadn't managed to decide whose side he had truly been on. He was horribly intelligent, if the scribblings of his teenaged self in an old potions' textbook had been any indication—who knew how much more he had secretly learned and created since then? Hermione had always respected him—grudgingly, as the years wore on. She disliked him a great deal.

But returning to Hogwarts after the war, after all she had experienced, she felt like she was beginning to understand him. More unnerving, she felt like he could perhaps understand her, given the chance.

Hermione continued to follow the steps of the potion to the letter, adjusting her flame several times to keep the potion's surface from bubbling; the temperature had to be kept at a low and steady temperature in order to prevent it from thickening. It had since turned the pale orange it was supposed to after adding the shredded lion's mane stems. At last she turned off the burner completely and moved the cauldron into an ice bath to rapidly chill. Hermione held her hand just inside the lip of the cauldron, decanting the solution when she could no longer detect warmth rising from it. She attached a neat label to each of her samples and brought them to the front of the class to present to Professor Snape—the first to do so, but then, that wasn't unusual.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione looked at the Potions Master across his desk where he sat severely in his hard-back chair.

"Yes, sir?"

"You are to be at the entrance of the supplementary potions lab at no later than eight o'clock this evening," he told her in a low voice, sounding displeased.

"Sir?" She asked, her heart pounding even while she felt only confusion.

"Several potions for the hospital wing require supervision this evening," he explained, after the corner of his mouth twitched in what appeared to be annoyance. "I have more important projects to attend to."

"Oh." Her heart still pounded. "Of course."

He waved her off with impatience.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione had timed herself to arrive five minutes early, and so stood waiting in front of the door woolgathering. She barely felt any of the usual dungeon chill with her heavy cloak gathered around her shoulders, which was a good thing because she had sadly forgotten to put on several items of clothing as she had dressed for the evening. Everyone made mistakes. Even Hermione Granger.

"Enter."

She hadn't actually knocked—though, it wasn't at all surprising that he would have registered her presence some other way. She let herself in. It was surprisingly warm, with a fire burning in a grate; there was a line of cauldrons sitting over flames on the longest worktable. Several others, spaced further apart, were set up towards the back of the room.

Professor Snape's cloak was draped neatly over the back of a chair beside the only other door into the room, beside which was a writing desk with stacks of notebooks upon it, its surface littered with scraps of parchment. She doubted he kept any notes of true value amongst the mess, given the public nature of the lab, but still she could easily imagine that reading through some of those logs would be fascinating. Professor Snape had noticed her interest in the desk and was giving her a raised eyebrow.

"Are these the potions that you'd like me to monitor?" Hermione asked, gesturing to the neat row of cauldrons closest to her. She kept her voice neutral as she unclasped and began to remove her cloak.

"Yes. I trust I will not need to hold your hand through an explanation of what each one is."

"No, sir."

He said nothing more, and returned his full attention to the potions toward the back of the room. His hair was pulled back from his face, gathered into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. His usual crisp white shirt was rolled up and buttoned at the sleeves—Hermione could not recall the last time she had seen his pale forearms, if ever. He was almost always covered up to his neck in wool, hide, and cotton. To see his forearms, so matter of fact, was almost uncomfortably intimate.

Hermione had not quite worked out how she would get his attention, so she forced her eyes to focus elsewhere, and put herself to work. The hospital wing needed supplies, and regardless of any other intentions she had for the evening, she didn't have any desire to spoil potions that the Hogwarts matron had requested. She began by identifying each one—by colour, consistency, and smell (if they did not seem to contain immediately poisonous ingredients). All but one were in their last stages, no longer requiring much other than the occasional stir or a small adjustment to flame. The blood replenishing potion had barely been started, however. Hermione judged it to have been left to simmer about a third of the way through... which would slowly degrade the ingredients' magical properties until the whole mixture became completely inert. She couldn't imagine the error being accidental.

Severus Snape was watching her.

"Problem, Miss Granger?"

"No sir, not at all."

She _could_ still save it. Possibly. Implements were along the left wall, but ingredients... the only other time she had been asked to work in the supplementary lab (at the request of Professor Slughorn), she had been required to bring her own ingredient kit. There were none in the room—apart from what was laid on the worktables that Professor Snape was moving back and forth between. She would have to ask him.

"Actually," her voice came out in a sudden burst, "Could I—this blood replenishing potion, sir, it's nullifying." She waved at it, her hand arcing to rest on the stirring rod beside the cauldron. "Is the classroom still open?"

His raised his eyebrow at her, always economical in his manner of expression.

"I thought I might be able to get the necessary ingredients from the school stores," she elaborated, all the while realizing the potion was probably already beyond salvageable.

He let out a small, but telling sigh. "Very well." Turned. "Follow me."

Hermione rounded the worktable (hopefully without seeming too eager) and went to join him at the door in the back of the room. Beyond it was a dim hall, smaller than she was accustomed to seeing in the castle; could it be part of his personal chambers? Impossible to be certain. The stone walls were completely unadorned, like any other section of the dungeons, dark or tinged green in some places because of constant dripping, of the damp. The professor turned immediately to unlock a door to their right with a muttered incantation and several lazy-looking wand movements—deceptively difficult to copy. It was no surprise at all that he should have a store room (a private one?) just outside the lab, but Hermione could not say she had expected to be allowed inside of it.

The lights began to turn on when he stepped into the long, narrow room, tall strips of light squeezed between columns of shelves—shelves of all different sizes. Light that was soft and inert, so unlike fire, so much better for accurately assessing the state of ingredients. There were some books near the door, a small rickety shelf of some of the most popular references and texts for herbs, fungi, precious stones, liquids, as well as a handful of specialized volumes on potion elements that were harvested from all sorts of other living beasts and creatures. She looked up at a high ceiling half-pierced by murky circles of light, at the two spindly rolling ladders that would allow one to climb all the way up to the shelves that the light could not reach.

He left her standing just inside the doorway, staring, to go pick through some of the shelves further in.

Hermione could not help but lurch towards the closest set of bottles, analyzing the organizational system with confusion and hunger—it was nothing like the classification they used in the store room students had access to. It was not organized according to use, or alphabetized. There were no labels below each shelf to indicate its general contents, no labels on the ingredients themselves to explain exactly where to replace them. Most, she noticed, had no labels at all except for a date or a measurement, sometimes. Further in, her feet carrying her while her mind was otherwise entertained, she found shelves that were warm as the inside of a body, or icy cold; a whole collection of shelves that contained humid atmospheres. She would bet anything pickled specimens were up in the unlit shelves, to stay preserved longer. Stasis spells were generally the worst way to keep ingredients potent in the long term.

"The armadillo bile is in the fourth shelf from the top."

Hermione flinched at the sudden noise, the finger that rose from her side, pointed lazily to the column of shelves to her left. One of the ladders rolled to a quiet stop where the finger had been pointing. She looked back at the professor, who was holding (she assumed) the rest of the required ingredients to his chest, one of the larger glass bottles tucked firmly in place by his wide palm. She was beginning to understand.

Without a word, she took hold of the highest rung on the ladder that she could reach, and began a slow climb to the shelf he had indicated. She kept her legs spaced far apart as she did so, the cold store room air freezing the wet points high on her inner thighs. He had to be watching. She took her time looking through the bottles and tins on the fourth shelf from the top, leaning forward deliberately for ingredients that had been placed all the way in the back even after she had identified the correct bottle of bile. The freezing, wet points between her thighs spread, enlarged as she descended, armadillo bile firmly in hand.

"I trust you know your way back?"

She did. Had he seen? She nodded and left.

It was obvious when she placed the bottle she had carried onto the table that the blood replenishing potion had completely spoiled. There was sediment at the bottom and a thin film of oil floating on the top; it couldn't be brought back from that point no matter what she threw into it. She would have to brew it from scratch. Luckily, very little in the way of ingredients had been wasted. Professor Snape, who had probably been replacing his wards and protections on the store room, finally joined her, placing all the ingredients he had been carrying in a cluster beside the bile.

"What happened?" Hermione heard herself asking with a gesture at the cauldron before she realized that she had opened her mouth.

"You were late to tend to it," came the reply, more matter-of-fact than irritated.

The interesting thing was that it was obvious, just by looking at the potion, that it had been simmering for hours—the change in expected colour and texture had proved it as soon as she'd taken a look at it. It wasn't a question of her being too late. The separation she had come back to after having been in the store room for a handful of minutes told her that she had never stood a chance at stabilizing it. She would have had to come a half hour, an hour earlier than the time he had requested she be there.

There was no one else to posture for, no one else to humiliate her in front of. Somehow, she didn't think he was trying to anger her. So Hermione spoke back to him.

"Clearly you started it too early."

The look he had been giving her changed, and his fingers gripped the edge of the table as he stepped around it, invaded just the very edge of her space.

"Absurd," he said, a quiet statement. "Do you make a habit of accusing all your professors of incompetence?"

"Only some."

The irreverence was all bunched at the tip of her tongue, her heart pounding with the anticipation and the fear of letting it all tumble out.

He moved closer, picking up a tin he had brought back and taking a look at the contents; pulverized astragalus root. "I suggest you start if you intend to finish before midnight."

"I wasn't the one who ruined it."

"Miss... Granger." Forced patience sounded more like a warning bell when spoken by Severus Snape. He set down the tin, closing the lid with exaggerated care. "Is this your labyrinthine way of informing me you do not recall how to brew a blood replenishing potion?" He had done a slow half circle over to her other side, though he stood just out of her line of sight. The professor banished the useless remnants of the inert potion with a jab and then a sweep of his wand. "Perhaps a cleaned out cauldron will jog your _infallible_ memory."

Hermione didn't respond to the taunt, and instead reached across the workbench for a large bottle of cinnamon sticks; her skin prickled, knowing he was standing right behind her, could easily reach under her skirt and—

She went to fetch two knives: one heavy for cleaving through some of the harder ingredients, the other small and thin for precise cuts. Professor Snape hadn't moved. She put down the knives next to the container of cinnamon and picked up the now-empty cauldron, bringing it to the basin at the end of the table. She sloshed some water around in it, dumped it out, and then filled the cauldron a quarter of the way, up to one of the four standard markers on the inside.

She set it back over the burner it had been on all evening, and extinguished the fire there.

"A waste of effort," Professor Snape commented, voice closer than expected to her ear.

"I could have said the same to you," Hermione shot back without having to think, splitting two sticks of cinnamon into quarters with the heavy knife. She dropped the cinnamon into the cauldron and Severus Snape chuckled.

The air stirred under her skirt and she felt skin, a fingertip, brush against her labia. She nearly let go of the knife.

"Miss Granger, you should be slicing the beetroot already," her professor pointed out; she was hyperaware of his finger hovering below them, just barely touching her pubic hair. Her heart resumed its pounding, and she felt herself grow wet at the mere circulation of air near her clit.

She had been displaying herself to him for days, but she hadn't truly expected—not truly—

Hermione made herself reach for a small burlap sack in which there were three even smaller beetroots. She picked up the more precise knife and began to peel away the thick earthy skin. Her fingers and palms turned a purplish red, some of the highly pigmented juice falling to the table, looking like pinpricks of blood. She set the root down and began to slice it, paper thin.

His finger delicately traced the slit of her entrance; she gritted her teeth, flinching at the unexpected contact and almost cutting her thumb.

"Uneven," Snape remarked, pushing a finger into her vagina and causing her to let out a small, ragged breath. "But then, I tend to find that as soon as students become adults, they believe they can take shortcuts." He crooked his finger, rubbing the inside of her walls. "I really did expect better of you, Miss Granger."

She felt as though her mouth was filled with cotton balls, dry and obstructed, unable to produce a sound. So she went back to slicing the beetroot. She could feel herself dripping.

He withdrew his finger and then inserted another, this one heavy with what must have been a ring. It stayed caught just outside her entrance, rubbing up against her labia, just shy of her clit. She made a noise, unintentionally, at the back of her throat. She wanted so badly to close her eyes, to abandon pretence—

Hermione needed just three more slices, that would about do it. Her hands were shaking, she could feel them, but not enough to be visibly obvious. Snape's ringed finger was joined by a second. She sliced, focusing on finishing the base, she had to.

Into the cauldron the beetroot went.

Out came his fingers.

"Tut, tut, Miss Granger." His lips were almost touching the shell of her ear. "Your impatience is showing."

Her mouth opened to take in a sudden breath when he pressed up against her, his erection digging into her back, a hand reaching around to cup one of her breasts through her loose sweater. He brushed her sensitive nipple gently through the wool. She had intended to bend over in front of him, give him an unintended view of her chest sans brassiere. She had spent a half hour before dinner that afternoon putting on all the sweaters she owned to see which one would work best.

Snape's lips touched her neck; she could feel the slight shift of air as he breathed her in.

"Did you... need something, sir?"

Straight out of a bad film, the words came, but her voice was all wrong for the part.

He chuckled anyway, breath stirring the fine hairs over her collarbone. "I believe that what I want is quite obvious." He pressed his lips to her skin this time, the weight a kiss instead of a coincidence. "I'm far more curious to hear what it is that you want."

"You must have a contraceptive potion lying around somewhere," Hermione replied with far more confidence than she felt.

"I know a much better incantation." His finger was stroking her labia again, slipping into and then back out of her vagina minutely, painting her with the evidence of her own arousal. 

"Then use it." She leaned onto the worktable more, spreading her legs further apart. 

She could hear the rustle of fabric behind her, feel his finger leave her body, the hard shape of his erection pushing against her back with each small wand movement he made. She recognized parts of the string of words he uttered—barrier, tearing, flow. Then his hand was on her again, rolling her clit under the pad of his middle finger, ring buried in her pubic hair.

"And just what should I do now, Miss Granger?"

In her imagined encounters, Hermione had never felt embarrassed or reluctant to voice her desires. Not so, now. There was such vulnerability in it.

"Perhaps we should both return to watching cauldrons boil," Snape suggested, an amused undercurrent clear in his voice.

"Take out your cock." The words ran straight down where Snape's fingers continued to stroke her.

"Anywhere in particular you'd like me to direct it?" He was enjoying himself entirely too much, his question a smug murmur near her neck.

" _Merlin_ —" she ground out, frustration at a peak, "just _fucking_ —"

She couldn't get any more words out against the unexpected bark of a laugh that came from Severus Snape. He quieted his mirth by pressing his lips against her neck again and then began unbuttoning his trousers one-handed. Her heart pounded. He trailed the head of his penis along the inside of her thigh, the heat of it a sudden shock.

Then she was bracing her forearms against the solid plank of the worktable, pushing back against him, her entire lower body thudding with arousal.

The tip of his penis teased her entrance.

Pushed partway in.

Withdrew.

She groaned a soft protest, and Snape leaned down to cover her body with his. He held this teasing rhythm long enough for Hermione to start moaning, low in the back of her throat, a plea to either continue or desist. She couldn't make up her mind which before he slid all the way in, rendering the decision irrelevant. The finger on her clit started stroking again, just as he began to thrust into her. Her vision swam, unfocused, a field of wood, glass, cast iron—she could hear Snape groaning, feel his cheek pressed into her hair, the side of her head. He grunted with effort and with obvious gratification, his breath beginning to come in slow bursts.

She could feel it, the pressure, like she was about to—

Hermione writhed against the table, crying out as her body spasmed around Snape's penis, his groans joining her with urgency as he began to thrust faster, about to come.

He gripped her hips suddenly, knocking her forward into the table with the force of his orgasm and then grinding into her body, with each subsequent, smaller wave of pleasure. He had pushed his face into her hair, breathing heavily, his nose brushing her ear as he wound down; Hermione could still feel him twitching inside of her. Snape kissed her neck again, seeming to like the spot just below her ear. She couldn't say she minded.

"Miss Granger." His voice was a low rumble against her skin. "Did this meet your expectation of _just fucking_?" He enunciated her earlier request with criminal earnestness. She pressed her lips together in an effort not to rise to the obvious bait. Let out a long breath through her nose.

"I'm quite certain we're past _Miss Granger_."

"Are we."

She could hear the unsettling grimace of a smile.

"I'm certainly not going to call you sir anymore," she informed him.

"I see."

She looked back at his face for the first time since he had gone to stand behind her, finding its relative openness strange, but also appealing.

He really did need to work on that smile of his.


	5. Chapter 5

## Part II : Silk Plants

She pressed and held, was holding, had been holding

so hard

 

drenched, she was,  
knees glued to the lacquered, scratched floor planks (blood was the bond

he was _dying_ —but slowly

 

the agent by which her body stayed locked) the only sounds, coming from her

not him—unconscious

her muscles ached; she was—

so terrified

 

but

 

Hermione jerked violently awake, inhaling a gasp that made her cough and curl up onto her side. Ginny, breathing in deeply as she swam to partial consciousness against her sheets murmured, "you 'right?" with tender-sounding but barely present attention. The other girls slept on, unaware. "I'm fine," Hermione whispered, ballooning, tucking the sheets around her body. "That's good," came the reply, genial in a way only the excessively sleepy can be; "Night then..."

Cocooned, now, she breathed, "night."

The nightmare, however, had done its work, and for two hours until it was time to get dressed for breakfast, Hermione lay awake, listening to the others breathing, to the house elves moving quietly through the rooms, to the near-winter wind singing between all the gargoyles' teeth on the roof. The nightmare was recurring, in a lot of ways a memory—darker, more hopeless, there was always far more blood, but no less terrifying than when she had experienced it firsthand. She relived some part of that moment at least once a week. She wasn't certain why. Why it was that, and not being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange instead, or seeing one of her classmates gored by a werewolf, having to look into Fred's blank eyes and think _that could have been Ron_ instead of _the world is unfair_.

Hermione could not justify calling herself a good person; she had been able to before the end of the war, but not after. She hadn't done enough to truly change things, and now she went to school and did what was expected, as if all balance in the world had been restored. It hadn't, but how was she to change it? She was one person, and everyone around her was tired of grieving, and being angry, of going to war. She thought of her S.P.E.W. campaign, a single drop in a bucket, of speaking over those who had had no voice to begin with.

Just as she did many mornings before breakfast, Hermione found herself lying shivering on her back, behind closed curtains, little saltwater deposits gathering in the shells of her ears with every silent, restrained sob that wracked her body. She was so incredibly powerless.

\--------

The snowfall from the afternoon before had melted by the time Hermione had dressed and descended into the common room; out the window the grounds looked soggy and cold, far too unwelcoming for a morning stroll. If Hermione were even the type to go on such excursions—which she certainly never had been. So she made her way down to the Great Hall, unhurried, wondering how she might occupy herself for the weekend. It felt like the beginnings of a dull day, one in which she re-read notes and tried not to think of the grand old time Harry and Ron were surely off having without her.

It was far too early to think about how Professor Snape had fucked her the night before.

No regrets there, but she wasn't quite ready to examine her feelings on the matter before she'd taken care of her rumbling stomach.

Hermione stopped and changed directions.

The kitchens. She didn't feel like sitting on a bench and listening to small talk, seeing the conspicuous absence of so many of her classmates (unimportant, the fact that most of them had never given her the time of day way back when). She would ask for something from the house elves, who would surely be relieved to sort her out with food and send her on her way, and then she'd go tuck herself into an alcove and continue to read that preposterous treatise by Marthung. Have herself a nice little chuckle. That would set her right.

\--------

Hermione went to collect food from the kitchens twice more, during the afternoon and then the early evening, keeping to herself in some of the lesser-used halls, the stone walls still too new-looking in places to fully mask what had happened between them months earlier. Hogwarts looked clean, and repaired, but it did not look as it had before. It had scars, great grey-flecked chunks of stone that looked rough and inert next to those, centuries-old, that had survived. 

Those places in the castle were like plain Muggle stitches holding the flesh of a deep wound together. They would dissolve as new skin formed, but until it did, the stitches were obvious, painful to the touch. For some of the castle's residents, the discomfort was not metaphorical: dizzy spells or headaches were the most common reactions to spending time near concentrations of new and old stones.

It was similar to the reactions some got when visiting parts of the castle that still lay in shambles. Strong curse residue could wind through the air, sending out feelers to passers-by, especially if they lingered, brushing them with the blues, with intrusive memories, with sudden paranoia, with physical sensations like dizziness or nausea.

Secondary reactions to curse residue were well-documented and researched, so it had taken some time before crews had realized that the side-effects they were experiencing after clearing an area had not been indications of lingering dark magic. Instead, Pulinski, a theorist who had heard mention of the "stubborn curses" at the school, had proposed an alternative explanation: the replacement of critically damaged or entirely destroyed old stones with band new ones had created empty spaces in the school's magical field. Not only would that weaken the building on a physical level for several years, it would also, Pulinski believed, temporarily damage the way that the building resonated with the magic of all those that lived in it. In short, certain witches and wizards that stood for too long in places with too many new and old stones clustered together would lose their balance magically, feel seasick, as if they were both floating and plummeting at the same time. Very few buildings were as steeped in magic as Hogwarts, and even fewer were still actively used and lived in; those that were generally hadn't seen a battle and had to rebuild as a result. It simply wasn't a phenomenon that had ever been noticed or looked into with any seriousness before.

But certain students and teachers at Hogwarts now found themselves having to avoid some hallways and rooms of the castle altogether—conversely, to minimize adverse reactions, some heavily-frequented areas, like the Great Hall, had been left with holes and stained stones because the Headmistress had not wanted to risk rendering the rooms unbearable to sit in. They had covered the eyesores with paintings and tapestries to the best of their ability until a better solution could be reached.

The school was a ward, with the dead, the gravely maimed, and the recovering all housed under one roof. At Hogwarts, even stone was sentient. Residents eventually learned how to step, which routes to take, in order to avoid those areas they could not bear to move through, and Hermione had done it too, in the beginning. The headaches had been mild, but insistent.

Her second weekend back, the frustration had trickled in: why should she have to tiptoe around her home? If a mild headache was all she would get for being able to walk where she wanted to, where she needed to, then what was the point of giving those sore spots in the castle such a wide berth?

The wing that housed the still-smouldering Room of Requirement hadn't made the list of places that should have its original stones kept intact. The heavy damage it had sustained meant that it had necessitated repairs just as extensive: it had been turned into a chess board. Most people avoided even a brisk walk through it.

When Hermione sat in the hallway where Fred had been hit with the curse that had killed him, it felt like her whole body was a fading bruise being pressed. Passing through made her head swim, but if she sat, it faded, the pounding soreness melting into the rest of her body instead. She didn't want to punish herself, and she didn't enjoy the discomfort—she just didn't want to yield any part of the castle to old curses that had defiled it. It was a silent protest, one that could hurt only her. And it was quiet there. Always somewhat warm, from the dying Fiendfyre. So few others bothered even to pass near the area.

Somewhere between zero and three.

 

(Probably closer to just one.)

 

If nothing else, it was a good place to reflect. Hermione still favoured the library for studying, or else the common room—obscenely raucous or quiet enough to hear a pin drop were the noise levels she found most conducive to fact retention, or to sudden brilliant ideas. Loud or soft, the world became muffled. The steady, echoing noise in the hallway outside of the Room of Requirement, however, was distracting, just infrequent enough, clear enough, to constantly catch her attention, pull her eyes away from the page. The torchlight flickering along the walls made it impossible to stare out the windows, to see landscape or stars. Hermione could look only into her own reflection, becoming stuck there in contemplation, for good and ill.

At the back of the hall, he was trapped there too, not even eyes, just an outline of a person, watching her, watching them both. Whenever Hermione looked back up from her book, wanting to escape into the scenery beyond the windows, the torchlight would force her back into the castle, onto a vision of herself that was too soft and transparent to be realistic. He never seemed to move. Though maybe he hadn't been there long. She had lost track of time.

Hermione had walked back to her bed on jelly legs the night before, encountering no one in the halls, but finding plenty of her classmates up chatting in the common room. Her professor all but followed her through the portrait hole. She knew because she had checked the map; she had checked the map at a prickle on the back of her neck. Hermione had waved Ginny off at an invitation to sit with her friends, had gone up to their dormitory, and been unable to shut her eyes.

For an hour, two, she had been back in the forests, living out of a miserable tent that had collapsed inside her over and over, just as routinely as the wards that she had put up and taken down around it. She and Harry and Ron. She and Harry. She and Ron, and Harry. All the times they had snuck off, under flimsy pretence—the memories left a strange taste in her mouth. Midday, the dead of night. Losing their virginity in the tent, because who knew? Always an overwhelming desperation for each other. Sex was a pause in the ugly tension, a way not to fight.

The other girls had slowly come back into the room, in ones and twos, saying goodnights in stage whispers, giggling and sighing with relief that the week was over.

Safety, and the return to society, made Ron distant, made Hermione restless. He avoided her eyes, spoke little, did not reach out. She swam with sense memories of sex with him, of all the forms, hurried, that it had taken, and felt a morbid sort of desire to continue. Half of the time, she was still back there, among the trees, hiding desperately, and waiting or wanting to die—most days she had not been certain which. The restless feeling that had built and relented in her over the course of the year prior had eventually become permanent. A moth battering her insides, trying day and night to find a way out.

Every day that they stayed holed up in Grimmauld place, speaking only to close friends and family, the memories of sex with Ron turned her stomach just a little bit more. They sat further apart, their conversations alone went from monosyllables, groans, and platitudes, to long, involved heart-to-hearts, with Harry always coming to form the last point of their triangle. They bickered. She forgave Ron for leaving her and Harry. They all cried.

It had seemed obvious, on the run, that she and Ron would have spent the rest of their lives together, that they were meant for one another. And when your world was made up of just two other people, when your life was surely about to end, there was no room to let occasional disagreement keep you from your final taste of happiness, of comfort. But when Harry had ended the battle at Hogwarts, all but winning them the war, the moment when their deaths would have been, had unravelled, tumbled off into the mist of their lives, suddenly further away than they could imagine. The population of their world had boomed, and Ron, so much more perceptive than either of them gave him credit for, had been the first to sense it, to pull away from her, especially. To give himself space to think about the second life he had been gifted, at the cost of all the others that had been lost.

When they had finally begun to speak at length again, it had been like reintroducing themselves to one another. They met as not-so-young adults instead of as children. She saw Ron in a new way, noticed how the anger and jealousy had left him, that he was self-assured, and insightful. She understood how much she loved him, and also the ways in which they could never give one another what they each needed. He became her brother on a warm, cloudy night, in the kitchen of Grimmauld place, Harry distracted by a cup of tea and staring out one of the windows. Ron would always support her, she could trust him with her life, and he would always, always know the best way to make her shriek with annoyance. And laugh, if she was upset. A brother, and a true friend. 

But not a partner. She would never willingly give him children, or go out and see the world when she could sit by the fire and read about it. He would never understand being forgotten for hours, for days, when she grappled with an interesting theory and could not fit anything or anyone else in her head. She could not forget the injustices of the world for hours at a time in order to count her own lucky stars. He refused to allow self-sabotage: happiness was not a moral wrong.

They were an inseparable bunch, her, Ron, and Harry, each of them bringing vitally different perspectives to their friendship. They patched one another's weak spots, made each other grow. But Ron, in the end, was like Harry: neither he nor Harry looked far enough in the same direction as her. They each looked towards a different point on the horizon, still not having found the _something else_ that they needed to make their selves complete.

Hermione drifted off second-last in the dormitory that night, to the faint, wet sounds of one of the others masturbating herself to sleep.  



	6. Chapter 6

Severus had spent a very fulfilling night watching over his various projects, taking samples, noting observations, and planning the next iterations of each nascent potion. His insides gnawing with hunger, he had fallen into an exhausted stupor of a sleep sometime after sunrise, no longer able to hold his quill upright—That was usually the sign. He had woken after three hours, scratched two and a half inches of cramped notes onto a summoned scrap of parchment, and gone back out like a light. After another hour, he had rolled onto his back, wide awake, and summoned a plate of desiccated biscuits that had been sitting on his desk for two days, along with his latest potions periodical. The bedroom curtains remained closed in favour of a bedside candelabra being lit; he wasn't in the mood for the water to refract light all over the bedchamber. More importantly, the flames often attracted attention from some of the more curious Merpeople, whose unblinking faces would loom beyond the glass to stare into his strange world.

When he had first taken up residence as the Potions Master of the school, he had made the mistake of leaving his curtains open overnight. It had been a bit of a novelty, as the dormitories in Slytherin did not have windows, though the common room more than made up for it with its floor-to-ceiling views out into the murky water of the lake bed. Upon waking the next day, he had been well into his morning wank when he had seen movement out of the corner of his eyes. Three Merpeople had been staring at him from one of the undersea windows; shocked, he had stared back from his propped-up position on the bed, fist stalled around his shaft. Then, the whole situation registering properly, he had jumped up and stomped over to the window, his penis jiggling and swinging with the force of his righteous anger.

"What are you staring at?" He had barked, spreading his arms with ire. His penis jumped again. " _Hmm?_ "

The three Merpeople had begun to talk amongst themselves, pointing at his erection, and beginning to giggle while it had continued to bob with his angry movements.

"Oh, to _hell_ with you," Severus had snapped, closing the curtains. He had finished himself off facing the covered window, spending himself with a growl of euphoric anger upon the heavy brocade fabric. He had then washed his hands, dressed, and left for his morning classes. Upon his return that evening, he had found no trace of the stain on the curtain, it having probably been cleaned by the unfortunate House Elf assigned to his chambers. He had taken to cleaning his own messes thereafter.

Severus had exposed himself to Merpeople more times than he could count (often unintentionally—or else due to some heavy drinking in private), but had learned not to anger himself over their occasional laughter or pointing. They were oviparous and to his knowledge did not even have the necessary anatomy for sex as a human would understand it; if they did have something comparable to a sexual ritual, it remained a mystery to the upper world. Their interest and amusement at seeing him wanking had been entirely harmless, not malicious as he had, in his youth, assumed.

Picking up where he had left off in his article about the healing potential of feverfew in mercury base solutions, Severus grumbled to himself with rare contentment. The author of the article was well-known in potions circles as either an attention-seeking idiot or a charismatic visionary, depending on who one asked. The article was in a rag of an academic journal that, in the past, Severus had not subscribed to, but rather borrowed from Albus on occasion (or the Hogwarts library—where all the back issues were eventually donated). Severus had taken up the subscription after Albus' death, for entirely practical reasons, he was sure. Though he did sometimes read the most dimwitted of articles to the portrait of his former master, to their mutual amusement. Entirely practical reasons.

Severus pulled himself up out of bed after finishing a second article partway, in an unusually acceptable mood. He had slept little, accomplished much, and felt certain that his insults for the day would be cutting and well-placed. He decided to take a short bath, to soak at least some of the sweat and cum off of his body from the night before—though he left his hair well alone. He lounged, spread-eagle, with his head against the lip of the tub, and stared up at the rough-hewn ceiling of the room. The walls were rounded, the bathroom appearing to have been carved out of one solid block of stone, so that it looked more like a grotto than a room. It was likely that one of his predecessors had taken a lot of time to charm the space to appear that way (obviously the same person that had thought it was a good idea to have windows that looked out into the lake—inspired, or lunatic?). But Severus had to admit, it made washing himself almost bearable.

There was never a substantive excuse for not at least washing himself off: the water in the tub (which looked more like a subterranean pool) never emptied, merely cycled. Severus had always privately suspected that Albus had given him the room with that in mind, as a subtle statement that personal hygiene did not have to be time-consuming. The self-sustaining pool of water could be warmed in degrees by turning an unassuming knob on the wall nearby. Another would activate the shower, charmed to look like a small waterfall. It was aggravating, how pleasant it was to use. Light a few candles, close the heavy, hunched door, and he might as well have escaped the castle entirely, for all the noise that was able to penetrate the construct of a cave.

So in the quiet, he thought of Granger, remembered her pressed into the lab table, the always-rippling water lapping the steps into the tub. Half-hard, he let himself float in the water, could feel the pulse in his legs, in his abdomen, his body warm with arousal. Severus stroked himself lazily a few times and then thought better of it, let his hand drift off to his side. He had always been a patient man.

Severus got out of the tub soon after, the constant movement in the water doing little to calm his state. He towelled off, resisting the very strong urge to take himself in hand, and instead busied himself with combing his hair. Passing a slick mineral stone over the skin of his underarms. Brushing his teeth (his paste recipe was excellent for preventing decay—he didn't give a pixie's fart about stains).

His erection finally calmed as he clipped and filed his nails, the minute actions automatic; he sat on the lid of the toilet and looked at the flickering wall with each pause between the grooming of his fingers, as if he could see into the laboratory not far beyond it. He left small spots of moisture on the floor, walking barefoot out of the bathroom and over to his closet, his chest of drawers. He dressed. 

And then dedicated the rest of his afternoon to the violent marking of some fourth year assignments.

\--------

Severus watched from the shadow of a pillar, the edging of a doorway, hidden in the way he relaxed his whole body, and didn't move. Granger read, taking up a whole bench to herself, leaning back against the swell of a pot, the plant inhabiting it taller than she was. Frond tips touched the wisps of curls newly-grown on the top of her head. She flicked or shook her hair every little while, only occasionally taking issue with the leaves' intrusion into her space. What Severus privately thought to himself was, _ticklish_.

She never turned around, just stared ahead, at the far wall, the window, or into her book.

Granger's hands seemed to get away from her when her mind was otherwise occupied: her loosely-curled fist would bounce against her thigh, a tightly-curled strand of hair would snake around each finger on her hand, and then spring back towards her head. She would pull on her own ear, trace all its lines, until the flesh, the cartilage, became pink at all the worrying. There always seemed to be some invisible dirt under her fingernails. She reached back often, to squeeze her own right shoulder, where it stuck out past the pot.

Had she thought of him at all?

When Severus had pulled out of her the night before, he had returned to his end of the room, to watch his experiments, to write his notes, to observe from a safe distance. In between potions and their brewing stages, he had felt the gravity of her stare on his back, or against his side. He returned her quiet curiosity with glances, or by listening to the way she moved around the workspace—a glass rod dropped on a work cloth, her bench scraping against the floor, an already sharp knife being further honed. She made noises of interest under her breath, moved her lips when she was counting (he could hear her cheeks smacking with saliva), and glances at her face... how shockingly full of emotion it was, her eyebrows moving and reacting to each thought she entertained. Loud, even when she said nothing.

Before leaving, she had transferred one of the potions (an ointment) into a sterile container, and ensured that the rest could be left alone at least until the next day either under stasis, simmering, or else resting at ambient temperature. She had cleaned the table she had been labouring at, her work cloth drenched, dragged over the stained surface, and then wrung out several times. Implements were washed, placed back where they had been when she had arrived. Then, she had stood still, saying nothing, for a minute, two, until Severus had finally looked up.

"They're all stable." She had gestured minutely at the cauldrons before her; it hadn't been enough to draw a response from Severus, and he had enjoyed her hesitation, then the hopeful lilt in her tone. "Did you—need anything else?"

"No." He kept his eyes on hers, voice neutral. "That will be all."

She had been unnerved; he had watched the certainty fall from her face like the first few leaves to change in the autumn. Each one an intake of breath or the crinkle of a muscle around her mouth. She had glanced away, at the floor, and then back to him.

"Goodnight Pr—" she had stopped herself, frowning in self-deprecation. Tried again. "Goodnight."

And left, at his nod of acknowledgement.

Severus had then followed her at a distance, keeping out of sight, wondering at his own fascination—debating at his own motivations with every step to Gryffindor Tower and back. He wondered at himself again now. It wasn't just the possibility of sex, or he wouldn't feel compelled to watch her read a book, her back turned. He would feel bored at her lack of exposure. Instead, his whole body was invested in the spying of her innocuous evening routine, his mind cataloguing every detail it could ferret out of the tableau. There were still answers he didn't have, facts that would not organize themselves into explanations. What had she done? What was she doing? What did she want?

Granger let out a contemptuous little chuckle down the hall, shaking her head at the heavy paperback she had been reading for the last three days (he was certain it was the same one). The pages were tanned at the edges, somewhat dog-eared; whether out of use or of disrespect, Severus couldn't decide. He watched Granger stretch one arm out, then high above her head where she let it drop down into her lap, slapping the open book in the process. Granger's concentration broke when her head fell back against the pot in a yawn.

Severus clenched and unclenched his fists in the time it took him to notice that he had already stepped into view, his whole body buzzing with tension, and annoyance, and interest. His legs carried him further, his footfalls completely silent—after all, he was not the sort of man to do things halfway—he stopped at her side, saw that she had shut her eyes. He hadn't thought of what he would say.

"What is it that you are reading that has been so amusing you all night?"

She flinched and opened her eyes, startled.

His mouth quirked involuntarily.

"It's..." She closed the book to show him the creased and bleached cover, keeping a finger at her spot, "Erm, Marthung's treatise on summoning spells as mode of transportation—" She faltered a bit, likely at his lack of reaction. "Perhaps you're not familiar with it—it's complete bollocks, it's just..."

"Just what?" Again, that involuntary quirk of the lips.

"Funny."

"Is it?" Of course it was—it was the very _picture_ of unfounded, idiotic bunk (he could hardly call it research), so wildly off-base that it became laughable. Marthung followed each of his hypotheses to their logical ends (if they could be called such), and went into such detail, engaged in such a suspension of disbelief, that it became difficult to tell whether the treatise had been written in earnest or as satire of some sort.

"If you enjoy absurd humour, yes."

Severus stepped closer to her, leaned down so that he could see the print on the pages better, the thin illustrations. "I enjoy belittling others." His voice was a rumble.

"I... think that's public knowledge." The book moved against her lap with each of her uncertain breaths.

He leaned in until his groin was brushing her shoulder—incidental, of course—and steadied his weight by curling his fingers over the lip of the plant pot. Her hair grazed the inside of his elbow. He couldn't feel the curls through the fabric, but he could see each one. "I own an original," he told her, still in a rumble, though it was a job to conceal his smugness. "Printed by Marthung personally, as no respectable publisher would have anything to do with the clod." Granger smelled like hair, just hair, right after the perfume of shampoo had started to fade from it. "And I bought it for a pittance, years later, from a colleague who had inherited it from someone else, and been ready to throw it away." Severus shifted his pelvis away from her, realizing how firm he was becoming. "Incredible," he commented in an undertone, "how wildly the valuation of the text changes from person to person."

"I have to admit, I thought this _was_ the first edition," Granger said, holding the book up and then plopping it back in her lap. "The only edition, rather."

"I suppose to them, the hand-published version doesn't really count."

"Is it different?"

"Very."

"How so?" Granger set the book aside and turned towards him so that her upper arm pressed lightly against his groin again. She scratched the side of her neck, fingers centimetres away from where Severus would have most liked them, and then lowered her hand to hold the side of the bench.

"The originals have handwritten annotations," he explained, the pressure of her arm against his arousal becoming more obvious with every breath. "From my understanding, he created only fifteen, each being personally addressed to a recipient. They also include his original diagrams and sketches, amusing in and of themselves—the commercially printed copies have professional illustrations." She was looking up at him, nodding along to each point. "Most importantly, those original prints are longer, having been left in an unedited state—the spelling and grammatical errors, along with some truly unnecessary tangents, add new depth to the already highly absurd text."

"That, I'd love to see." There was a smile forming on her lips, small, but obvious.

"I'm sure you would." He hadn't particularly aimed to sound condescending, but it was rather a habit of his.

Her small smile twisted into something closer to annoyance—or exasperation, maybe. She dropped her eyes and traced a shape on the cover of her paperback. It was a silent protest, he realized, perhaps as automatic as his condescension. Though she had not physically pulled away from him. He clarified: "I don't allow books from my personal collection to leave my quarters."

"Ah." She glanced up at him, the annoyance having turned to uncertainty, but said nothing further. She would become a wall, if he wasn't careful—unreceptive and just as dense. Severus resented having to make his meaning more obvious.

"I'm certain you would find my sitting room more comfortable than this hallway."

"Oh." It was a soft exhalation, and he could see the hitch in her eyebrows at the apparent surprise. She glanced up at him again, the smile working its way back onto her lips. "Well. I'll let you know."

He resisted the very strong urge to roll his eyes, an urge which he had some trouble categorizing. Directed towards himself for speaking more openly—or directed towards her for recovering so quickly from her discomfort and turning flippant? No, not flippant. Coy. He wasn't imagining things: she _was_ flirting with him. Her remark had gone straight to his groin; blunt, or cliché, but no less arousing. Perhaps the eye roll had been meant for himself, after all.

"What does it feel like to you?" Came her question, and she was looking up at him again, turned a little more towards his chest.

Severus raised his eyebrow at her. Could her inquiry have been any more vague?

"This hall," she replied, eyebrows creasing slightly as if to underline that it should have been obvious.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

She did tend to parrot when taken aback. Severus let out a minor sigh, realizing that her curiosity was about to catch up with her and topple over him in the form a litany of questions. He would have to cut her off at the pass. Which, to be fair, was normally an impossible endeavour. Somehow or other, Granger would always find the answers she sought.

"This hallway does nothing to me." He could see her itching to ask something else, so he added, preemptively: "I have had practice ignoring these sorts of effects."

It would have been wishful thinking to expect such a paucity of information to satisfy her—and yet, there it was. Just another miserable example of how Severus had gone soft since the end of the war.

"Practice?"

He gave her a dark look, meant to dissuade further questions. Her curiosity flickered, but remained firmly on her upturned face. He found himself wearing a bit of a scowl.

"Yes, _practice_." He ground out, lowering his face along with his tone. He bent down towards her slightly, the sides of his cloak falling forward, still gripping the lip of the plant pot near her head. "The Dark Mark was far worse."

"How?" She breathed the word, if not intimidated by his looming figure, than at least giving him some manner of deference. 

"It's a hole," he told her simply, giving in to the impulse to crack a small, unpleasant smile. Her eyebrows furrowed with her incomprehension, and he found himself willing to elaborate once his smile had evaporated. "The Dark Mark is a hole where my magic used to lie, then it was where his used to stick. Now it is empty space, earth that the Dark Lord salted when he was destroyed."

He saw her dawning comprehension twisting in and out of horror, revulsion, on her face.

"Yes, now you understand why some of the Death Eaters died when he did. Or went mad."

She still couldn't find anything to say—a rare occurrence, by any account. He waited, watching her eyes flicker, her lips waver.

"I'm sorry he did that to you."

She did sound it, which he found aggravating. "I survived."

"Yes, but—still."

"Are you so bored by this conversation that you no longer feel the need to use complete sentences?" He bit out before he could think about it, his voice a low growl.

Her expression had flipped again, and she stared up at him, her eyebrows forming a ridge of annoyance on her forehead. She reached out to cup his penis, still firm, through the fabric of his trousers, and he fought not to express his shock.

"A pity." He finally proclaimed in the quiet, choosing to ignore his own hypocrisy.

Hermione continued to stare up at him, fingers stroking his groin, maybe searching for a way past the fabric. "I thought you preferred my being concise."

"Brevity does not necessitate the use of sentence fragments."

"Maybe not in writing," she conceded, nail catching on a button, "but speech is different."

"Excuses," he chided her darkly, knowing she would catch the jest.

Her expression did soften.

"Excuses can be valid," she pointed out, fingers working on unfastening the placket of his trousers.

"Rarely."

She made a small sound of acknowledgement at the back of her throat instead of replying, and he felt her pull his penis out through the opening in his trousers. Her fingers slid past the head, dragging the moisture there with them, and wrapped around the shaft in a loose grip. Still, she said nothing.

"Tell me, Granger, will you be making valid excuses to your friends later, about where you've been all evening?"

She chuckled through her nose, and the breath washed over the head of his penis like a taunt. "They'll be valid," she assured him, the humour plain on her face. "But they won't be entirely honest."

"You find it necessary to lie about having a conversation with a professor?" He asked, purposefully being obtuse.

"No, but I'd rather not mention where my hands ended up."

"An omission is not the same as a lie."

He caught a flash of annoyance in her face, but then the humour returned.

"Fine. My excuses will be valid, but _uninteresting_." She was stroking him, her lips curved into an indulgent smile as she spoke. "Is that better?"

"Marginally," he allowed, after swallowing a groan of pleasure, not certain whether she was referring to her correction or to her handiwork.

Her eyebrows raised slightly, but she made no further comment.

Severus still hadn't felt the need to put up any privacy charms; it was so quiet that any footsteps would ring clear down the hall and around any corners. Still, as was so often the case, he decided to take action to conceal himself, if only to avoid a lecture from Minerva in the highly unlikely scenario that someone happened to choose to take a walk on the now-infamous seventh floor. 

All students had been warned away from it during the welcoming feast, and had been given the explanation that it could make them feel sick to stay in that hallway for an extended period of time. Naturally, this had driven many of the students up to the seventh floor for a walk, which in turn had spread more concrete warnings of _upset stomach_ , _headaches_ , and _dizziness_ to the rest of the students still debating a trip. What the headmistress had not mentioned was that before the school had been reopened, Filius had collapsed after about an hour in a seventh floor corridor, when he had been doing a final inspection there for any lingering curses. It had taken him a day of rest for the lingering dizziness and nausea to dissipate.

Curiously, none of the little terrors that had returned to the school had suffered such adverse reactions, but then, Severus doubted any of them had stayed on the seventh floor very long upon developing symptoms. Except Granger, apparently.

He grabbed his wand with his free hand, and cast a notice-me-not charm. Then, tucking his wand back inside its holster he asked, with more curiosity than he would freely admit to, "What exactly is it that you feel, in this hallway?"

One side of her mouth quirked downwards and then righted itself. "Just some discomfort."

" _Discomfort_." She watched the work of her own two hands with great intent. "Tut tut, Granger. That is less succinct than it is an incomplete answer."

 

Her response to this accusation was unexpected, to say the least: she took the head of his penis into her mouth, sucking on it, her tongue sliding along its underbelly, glancing over the edge of the foreskin that she held back with one of her hands. Severus forgot, for a whole minute—or longer—what it was that he had been asking.

He could easily recall the last time that someone had done that to him, years ago, at a Malfoy revel, of course—where else? After all, being sucked off had never been a common occurrence in his life. It had been before the Dark Lord had fallen the first time, when their leader had still been marginally human, had been—to a degree—relatable. When the movement had still (at its surface, at least) been about class, politics, power through wealth and knowledge, safeguarding tradition. It was no wonder that Severus had been drawn to the luxury, to the glamour that the Dark Lord had radiated, to the dignity (not to say snobbery) that he had carried himself with. They had all, then, still possessed enough humanity to care about keeping up appearances.

Learning that the Dark Lord had been making Horcruxes had been akin to getting clubbed in the face for how obvious it was, in retrospect. His rhetoric had gone from superior to deeply violent several months before the Potter murders. He had forced all members of the movement to take the then-unknown Dark Mark, killing or ostracising and exposing those who would not. The power he held over them, especially the earliest members, had originated in charisma and gradually changed to fear, to intimidation. He killed his own. He spilled magical blood. He became a hypocrite—and those who dared speak against him were threatened, tortured, disposed of.

The Dark Mark then poisoned the well.

Some physically sickened from it. Some were driven mad. Some died receiving it.

Those that recovered were either trapped between compliance and death, or else fully gave in to their own hidden pockets of depravity. This depravity manifested either in committing atrocious acts, or in saying nothing to prevent them. Everyone was culpable, in their own way.

Of course, Regulus Black had been a fine exception, one of only a small handful of Death Eaters who had chosen to take the consequences of defiance in order to no longer be quietly culpable of the actions of the larger movement. His disappearance, like that of the others, had served as an effective deterrent to those who wanted to denounce the movement, but not at the cost of their own lives. It was a badly-kept secret that the Dark Lord was adept at Legilimency; playing the game of depravity became a full-time job.

Became the truth.

Severus, of course, had found another way, aided by the fact that he was as good as, if not better than, the Dark Lord at Legilimency and Occlumency. But he had never truly escaped, and no matter what the papers said, no matter the verdict in the courts, he had been and always would remain in some capacity, culpable. He hadn't tried to leave until the violence had affected him personally. His reasons for spying had always been self-serving, even if they happened to also serve the interests of the Order.

He felt Granger's other hand reach out to grip his thigh, to steady herself, felt her remove her mouth, and he could not suppress his low groan of pleasure at the way she began to stroke him in earnest.

The image of her, still sitting on the bench, partly absorbed into the alcove that was his cloak, was an arousing one, the urge to thrust into her hand almost too much. He straightened, so that he could see more of her curly head of hair, though she would not look up at him. The tip of his penis strained towards her collarbone; her breath kept his exposed skin warm.

"Now that your mouth is free," he murmured in his silkiest tone, "perhaps you'd care to answer—"

He watched her lips engulf the glans of his penis again, letting out a small huff of air at the unexpected pleasure. Then a half-swallowed groan of appreciation for her tongue. With the hand that was not still gripping the pot, he slipped his fingers into her hair, the soft frizz and tangle of it—he grit his teeth with the effort not to push himself further into her mouth—

And she relented, breaking the contact with a smacking sound, with a small intake of breath.

She looked up at him.

His pulse was throbbing—just a few more strokes, that would be all he needed.

"I've just remembered," Granger confided, her lips glazed, her eyes bright, "I have an essay due tomorrow—all the reading, the conversing, has made me lose track of time. I really do need to get back to work on it."

Severus stared at her.

"Tomorrow is Sunday," he finally replied, all acid.

"Yes," she agreed, smiling at him in a way that reminded him strongly of Albus.

She created a current of cool air as he let her pass with a heavy scowl, his erection, still covered in her saliva, sticking out between them. The smile didn't leave her face—pleasant, an undercurrent of mischief. Severus had half a mind to finish himself off over the bench, as she turned the corner, but let out a slow, grudging breath and pushed his penis (with great difficulty) back through the hole in his trousers instead. Re-fastened his buttons. Glared, for one long minute, at the innocent furniture before him.

In the walk back to his quarters (halting, at first, as blood trickled off to various parts of his body), Severus put his mind toward his projects, to those potions that were under stasis, waiting for the next step outlined in his notes. He would need to go over the revisions and remarks he had scratched out, half-asleep, that morning, before he could proceed. The calculations for the ingredients of one of the potions would unfortunately require the second opinion of Vector (she was both genial _and_ enthusiastic, a combination that never failed to get on his nerves), but he could always put that off another day.

What was another day compared to the two weeks he had already put off that consultation?

By the time Severus had arrived in his chambers and hung up his outer robe, he had calmed down enough that he could concentrate fully on potions without having to deal with an itch in his palm, so to speak. But every spare moment in the process of his brewing, every blank space in the meticulous recording of his observations, was filled with a overgrown tangle of thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was away for most of November with no access to a computer; my apologies for how long this chapter took to put up!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I offer you all a brand new chapter, in which I begin to juggle more characters and a hint of plot, despite the warning of my very nice, sensible brain (my brain made me write that compliment).

The following afternoon, Hermione had gone down to the supplementary potions lab, in order to try to get her hands on that first edition Marthung. She hadn't known where the entrance to Snape's personal quarters were (still didn't), and it had seemed reasonable that he would be in the lab rather than his office, given all the experiments he seemed to have had going the last time she had been there. Her deduction had proved reliable. The potions master had opened the door to the lab with an expression that left none of his apparent disinterest to the imagination—but had let her inside, shutting the door without comment.

There, sitting on a cleared worktable near the door, had been the book.

Snape had gone back to working on whatever it was he had been occupied with before she had arrived, and Hermione had conjured a soft armchair to fold herself into while she skimmed for unfamiliar passages to read. An hour or two had passed this way before Snape had finally addressed her.

"Granger," he had snapped, startling her, "Make yourself useful and come stir this."

She had stared at him, at the experimental brew he had been pointing at.

"Granger," he had repeated, a reprimand. His attention had already shifted, however, to the ingredients he had begun hastily preparing. 

"You could try asking," she had pointed out, though very quietly, not certain if she wanted him to hear.

The pause before he had snorted in derision had been telling. Even despite his grumbled, "I don't need your help, it is merely _convenient_."

Who had said anything about help?

Hermione had left the book on the workbench and hurried over to the brew that had required her assistance—no, that had required the _convenience_ of her presence. When one wasn't terrified of detention, insults, or losing house points, his commitment to negativity could be a bit ridiculous. Even funny. It shouldn't have been funny—it was awful, had always been awful... But Hermione had felt this urge to laugh, a helpless laugh, as she had rounded the table to stand beside him, facing the cauldron in need of stirring. 

"Well?" He had snapped, still ripping through the next ingredients to be added with his knife. "Thirty clockwise, rest for twenty seconds, then one hundred and twenty counter clockwise."

His impatience had done it: Hermione had lost it.

"Why are you laughing?"

"I—I don't know..." she had giggled helplessly, picking up the glass stirring rod.

" _Circe_."

His long-suffering sigh had filled the room.

"I'm sorry!" She had gone on laughing, stirring.

\--------

The ground was springy and cold, still saturated with the snow that had melted so quickly two days before. Hermione imagined it was cold, anyway—the water-repelling and warming charms on her boots were still as strong as ever. Already well after dark, the path to Hogsmeade was quiet (not that that was unusual, even in daylight), though not particularly frightening. The small blue flame that Hermione had conjured to put on her shoulder illuminated enough of the path ahead of and behind her to put her at ease. Her right hand lay deep inside of the false-bottom of her coat pocket, curled around the handle of her wand—just in case. 

Knowing that she would be meeting Harry and Ron at The Three Broomsticks later on, she had skipped dinner in the Great Hall to stay in the lab and help with Snape's experiment (though he would neither give her any overt details about its nature or dignify her efforts with the term 'help'). Hermione was famished, in other words.

A part of the path wound along the Forbidden Forest, and then cut through a field dotted with hills where several common potions ingredients grew wild, and in abundance. Though it was difficult to tell in the dark. The dirt-and-gravel path Hermione followed led directly to the village, lights from the shops and wizarding homes twinkling on the horizon. They shone brighter than the stars, anyway, which the blue flame sitting on her shoulder made impossible to see. It was no real loss. The sky had been overcast the whole day, and there were very few breaks in the clouds through which one could see any astral bodies.

Being a weekday evening, the streets were mostly empty when she finally set foot onto the cobblestones of the main road. She banished her flame before anyone could see it and decide to satisfy their curiosity, then made her way up the road, towards The Three Broomsticks. She was a bit late, but decided not to apparate the rest of the way, preferring instead to walk and think. This was how she crossed paths with Luna Lovegood.

"Oh, hello," her dreamy voice came, from the other side of the street.

Hermione looked up reflexively at the source of the greeting, and then did a double-take.

"Luna?"

"I had a feeling I might run into you," she remarked with a half-smile, "it's much harder to ignore someone when you run into them in person."

Hermione blinked, recoiled minutely, as if slapped. "W—what? I haven't—"

"How are you?" Luna came over to her side of the street, no trace of resentment in her expression.

"Erm..." Hermione tried to recover from her own embarrassment, however misplaced Luna might have thought it. "I'm... good." She paused. "And you?"

"I'm alright," she smiled, and Hermione realised she was cradling a bound scroll to her chest. "My proposal has just been rejected again but..." She trailed off, looking thoughtful (though thoughtful was the way she nearly always looked, to be fair). "Everyone knows that fifth time is the charm."

Hermione opened her mouth to correct her, then thought better of it and closed her mouth again. Luna had been gazing away from her, down the empty street, anyway.

"A proposal for what?" Hermione asked instead—and about this she was genuinely interested.

"I've decided to write a book," Luna replied, with all the gravitas of someone announcing they were off to buy groceries.

"A book?" Hermione could not pin down what she had expected the answer to be, but it hadn't been that.

"I always thought that you would be the one to write a book," she murmured wonderingly, tilting her head up to glance at the sky.

"I admit the idea has crossed my mind once or twice."

"I'd like to research shy creatures in their natural habitats," Luna explained, looking back at Hermione again. "But my father will only finance the book if it is completed from home. He's very lonely." Luna considered a moment, and then added, "he's very protective. I think he worries I would die." Her lips formed a serene smile that shone out of her eyes. "I would be okay with dying doing what I loved, though. I've been writing to publishers instead, but they're not very imaginative people."

"No, I suppose they wouldn't be," Hermione agreed weakly.

"Have you decided what you would like to do with your life yet?"

It was always jarring to be asked these sorts of questions by Luna. Anyone else would wield such a question, hiding its pointed tip—a reprimand, a backhanded sort of boast. But when Luna asked someone such a question, her curiosity was benign. Very few people met her and understood that she lived her life in search, always, of truth. Instead, they immediately made the mistake of assuming that her fascination with imagined creatures, with conspiracies, meant that she was disconnected with reality. But in fact, that was the very source of her need for truth. Her thoughts expanded, exploded, in all directions, they ignored published texts, guidelines, conventions. She didn't need to abide by the rules of polite conversation in order to connect with another human being. Sometimes talking to Luna came as a shock. She would never pretend not to see you as you really were.

"I've..." Hermione began, almost saying _got a few_. "I have no idea," she said instead, quietly. "I feel lost."

"That's okay," Luna assured her, sounding like she meant it. "Feeling lost means you still care to find the answer."

Hermione nodded, unable to think of anything to say.

Luna looked up at the sky again, at ease.

"Erm, listen... do you want to come with me to the pub?" Hermione suddenly found herself asking. "I'm meeting Harry and Ron for drinks—we could talk, they'd love to see you—"

"Would they?" She asked, curious, her attention still on the stars.

"Of course," Hermione assured her, hoping that Luna would accept, feeling strangely desperate that she would, "you're our friend."

"I think I would feel like a fourth wheel," Luna remarked, appearing to give it great thought. "The three of you are very close."

Hermione again resisted correcting her use of an expression.

"Are you sure?"

"I think I'll work on my proposal," Luna told her, the smile reappearing on her face. "Another time." Then she returned her gaze to Hermione and added, without ire, "maybe you can invite me ahead of time the next time."

Hermione couldn't say anything to that. Nodded, chastened—though she understood that would not have been Luna's goal in making the comment. 

"Goodnight Hermione."

"Good luck with the proposal, Luna. See you soon."

Luna crossed the road again and continued on her way with a pleased (if absent) smile.

\--------

Hermione spotted the back of their heads as soon as she shut the door behind her, knocking loose grit and condensation from the soles of her boots onto the mat. It wasn't as crowded as it would have been on a weekend, but nearly every table and bar stool was occupied, mainly by villagers out to have a chat with their neighbours or coworkers. They had picked a table at the back, right next to the bar, with two chairs that faced a padded booth seat; they had taken the chairs, of course, their coats hanging off the backs (Ron's trailed just a little on the floor). Hermione squeezed both their shoulders when she came up behind them, making Harry jump, and Ron exclaim, "oi!"

"Sorry I'm late," she laughed, coming around to wedge herself into the booth seat. "I met Luna just up the street, and we had a bit of a chat."

"Good to see you, Hermione."

"Did you really have to grab our shoulders?"

"Yes, Ron, I did." Hermione wiggled out of her coat and piled it beside her on the bench, feeling rather cheerful. She unwound her scarf and added it to the mound. "Good to see you too, Harry."

"So you ran into Luna," Harry prompted her, making swirls in the condensation on his mug of Butterbeer . "How is she?"

"Fine, I think. Actually, she's busy trying to get funding to be able to write a book on magical creatures." Hermione considered for a moment and then continued. "It's always a bit hard to tell with her—I think she's alright. It's just, I think she's already been rejected four times. That must wear down on anyone, at least a little."

"Shouldn't she write the book first and then try to sell it?" Ron pointed out delicately.

"From what she told me, she wants to actually go out and research in the field, so I believe that's what she needs the funding for. She didn't say so outright, but I assume she wants to discover new species—hopefully real ones. She does have a rather big imagination."

"Big is an understatement," Harry remarked with fondness.

"You know, I'd been thinking about where I should invest the money I got from all those bloody interviews and appearances," Ron cut in with good humour. "Maybe a book is just the thing."

"I wouldn't mind chipping in on that one," Harry chuckled, raising his mug to drink. "Business partners?"

"Why not, mate?" Ron laughed, clinking his own mug against Harry's before taking a gulp.

"You two..." Hermione shook her head, feeling amused but not wanting to encourage them.

"What?" Ron asked defensively, still laughing.

"It's just, I'm sure she's serious about it—we shouldn't be making light of it."

"We're not— _I'm_ not," Ron replied, sounding a bit surprised through his mirth. "Are you Harry?"

Harry shook his head, unable to speak for the Butterbeer he was attempting to swallow.

"There, you see? We've been two useless lumps since the war ended—even you've at least gone to finish your studies, Hermione. If Luna knows what she wants to do, and she just needs a handful of galleons to get started..." Ron shrugged. "Otherwise, that money is just going to go to irresponsible behaviour. Right Harry?"

"Too right," he agreed, shaking his head with a grin.

"I'm sure it already has," Hermione remarked dryly.

"We'll get Pig to bring her a letter tomorrow morning—unless we're too hung-over to remember."

"That's non-alcoholic," Hermione pointed out, exasperated.

"Ah, but if we imagine and wish very hard—"

"It'll turn into Firewhiskey." Ron laughed, starting to get up. "You want anything, Hermione?"

Hermione smiled, shaking her head. "Yeah, alright. I'll take a Butterbeer."

"Sure you don't want something stronger?"

"Let me work up to it, Ronald," Hermione laughed.

\--------

The whole evening had consisted of Harry and Ron getting progressively drunk, sipping incessantly on their drinks, and filling Hermione in on what they had been up to, some of it very entertaining. Her favourite account had been of their trip to an arcade in Muggle London with Dean and Seamus (Neville, on an apprenticeship in France, had not been able to make it). They had gone out for drinks first, and then spent several hours challenging one another to games, Ron both bewildered and enchanted by all the flash, colour, and noise filling the establishment. _I kind of understand why my dad is so fascinated with Muggle things now_ , Ron had admitted. _Really mind-boggling stuff, their machines_.

Hermione had only laughed when Ron had attempted to convince her to join them the next time.

She had decided to take the long way to Gryffindor Tower even before returning to the castle; it had been nearing midnight when she had left the pub, and yet after her trudge back through the hillside, she had slipped in through one of the courtyard entrances feeling more thoughtful than tired.

She unwound her scarf during an unnecessary turret climb, let it hang down around her neck, swatting at her knees. Her coat, she unbuttoned in a little-used hallway full of dark oil paintings that only ever saw the whites of the eyes of passing students, the wall sconces used for lighting too far up on the walls to provide good illumination. They were nearly all landscapes, unmoving and quiet. Though sometimes a breeze would cause rustling, a high distant whistle, a moan.

Or were those the muffled sounds of painted denizens, meeting in secret?

She could walk the castle every day for the rest of her life, and would always find new meaning in its corridors. After all, it wasn't a static monument. It had whims, history, the constant crackle of young magical energy to interact with. It had pain too.

The pain of nurturing a child and then never seeing them again.

Of all the trapped spirits and half-lives that had decided to make their forever home in its belly.

Of being torn apart by its children turned adults; it should have known, it should have known.

Hermione began to regret her one glass of elf wine; alcohol always made her morose, and she had _known_ that, but they had all been in such a good mood...

The end of the cramped hallway spilled out into a rounded corridor a short walk from the common room, its many tall, hand-width windows overlooking the grounds. Every third window was stained-glass, a forest scene, a sunrise in a field, a river running between hills, climbing vines, flowers and birds. They were all dark now, but Hermione had seen them at all times of the day, knew the scenes and their colours by heart. It was exceedingly beautiful to walk along the windows in the morning, with the sun pouring in (when the clouds would allow it) for several hours before noon. But that also meant it attracted traffic, that it was a frequent detour for fellow Gryffindors who woke up early enough before breakfast or classes to afford the stroll.

"Were you staring dramatically out at the grounds all night, or just for the past several minutes?" She asked, stopping next to the patchwork river.

He scowled, not dignifying her question with an answer.

Which, naturally, made her grin.

"Were you trying to intercept me on my way to bed?"

"That would be inappropriate."

He spared her a glance, raising his eyebrow.

"Hmm." She considered the slope of the stone windowsill, laying her hand on a spot where a crack had formed, or had always been—whichever. "It would be."

"I noticed your approach on the path from Hogsmeade, but the fact that you decided to return to your dormitory by means of this corridor was coincidence. I think it would be more accurate to assume that you were the one trying to intercept me."

"I really wasn't," Hermione assured him, settling her other hand on the windowsill and letting her gaze lose focus. The panes turned into a dim orange-tinged mass where they reflected some of the firelight from a brazier further down the corridor.

"What a relief."

His tone could not have been more dry.

Her mind was on autopilot, thinking of and rejecting questions, statements—scattering memories like birdseed, hoping to entice an idea to spring into her brain. The wine tugged her thoughts into maudlin avenues. Snape watched whatever was outside intently, never moving from the corner of her eye for the minute that her mind raced. She thought of how she would say _yes_ if he asked her to follow him into the dungeons. Then of the fact that Luna Lovegood wanted to chase after magical creatures for a living. Ron had told funny story after funny story—even Snape would have had to crack a smirk, let out a snort; derisive or not, his sense of humour would have surfaced. Harry had been quiet, even for him. _Have you ever done this before_? She could never ask him that. She would never want the answer. Who was she now?

"Luna wants to write a book."

"Lovegood?" He asked, sounding dubious about the prospect.

"Even if there were more than one Luna, I feel safe in saying that one in particular stands out."

She thought she heard a snort.

"Yes, of course, _Lovegood_ ," Hermione muttered, then raised her voice. "She wants to research magical creatures."

"I pity the editor," Snape remarked, wry.

"Why?" Hermione demanded, annoyed on behalf of her friend.

"She is... insightful (he spoke the word with disdain), and possesses the potential for making intelligent analysis of certain subjects." He paused, glancing at Hermione again. "However, her writing meanders horrendously and she occasionally takes it upon herself to invent facts."

That did sound rather accurate. Unflattering, perhaps, but not unfair.

"I look forward to securing myself a copy."

Hermione blinked.

"I'm certain Albus will demand to have it read to him; He always had a soft spot for Miss Lovegood. Her essays used to delight him, his chuckling was near unendurable."

"Oh," Hermione said, finally understanding, starting to frown. "You don't think it's a bit awful to laugh at her? I mean, she is quite earnest about writing the book."

"It's only horrible to laugh at someone you know, is it?" He asked, his tone pointed, almost smug.

"That's—" Hermione swallowed, thinking of her afternoon spent snickering at the Marthung volume. "It's _completely_ different, of course."

"Oh, of course," Snape replied, humouring her, and clearly enjoying it.

Hermione folded her arms across her chest, shifting her weight, the stained glass coming back into focus. "I'm sure she'll surprise you."

"Miss Lovegood's forte is in surprising those around her. I have no doubt."

Hermione let out an aggrieved huff at the backhand compliment.

"Did you stop here to update me on the state of Miss Lovegood's career?"

He was starting to sound almost amused; she finally turned towards him, to look at where he stood neatly next to the window, in his sweeping robes, the very picture of melodrama. Hermione caught herself before she succumbed to a chuckle.

"You really should work on your conversation skills," he suggested, straightening his cuffs.

"I'm amazed that you're not simply answering a question with a question tonight," she fired back, before she could think about it. "Or speaking in monosyllables."

He raised his eyebrow, but his expression did not turn irate.

"You do that a lot."

"Do I?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose at him in mock-anger, stepping forward, her eyes widening in surprise when he slid his palm around to the base of her neck. His hand slid further, under her loose shirt, towards her shoulder. She couldn't look up into his eyes, could only stare forward at the buttons on his shirt, breathe as calmly as she was able. Difficult, with his hand slipping out of her shirt, and down, towards her waist, his other hand tracing a similar path on her other side. He tugged lightly, a suggestion that she move closer; she closed the distance between them completely, instead. She could hear him smelling her hair; just one small inhale. Then wrapped her arms around his back, feeling the bone, the wiry muscle through his shirt, losing her hands, part of her arms, under the black cloud of his cloak. His erection cut into her hip—she remembered the way it had felt inside of her in the laboratory.

"You should be in bed."

"Whose?"

She finally looked up at him, had pressed her palm to the back of his heart, where it thudded, something like hers, always covered by the funeral shroud he had carried on his back for as long as she had known him. She could feel each intake of breath, each one only able to fill the circumference of her looped arms, no more.

When he pressed his lips to hers, Hermione could feel her heartbeat in her face. Her eyes had closed, lips relaxing, pressing back, when his hands moved further, down to squeeze her bottom. She had made a small noise at the back of her throat, to feel him press himself against her, to imagine him slipping inside her, fucking her in the corridor—she was far too aroused to want to move anywhere else.

"Mine," he finally murmured in answer against her ear. "Next time."

And then he kissed her neck and disentangled himself. Left.

She supposed she had deserved that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to the next installment of this ride. I'm still awful at tagging this fic, but in other news, some of the jokes in this chapter may possibly land. Good day.

> Luna,
> 
> How are you? It's been ages.
> 
> Hermione told us that you'd crossed paths with her the other night, and that you were working on a book of some sort. I know it probably seems sort of out of the blue, but could we get a copy of your proposal? I'm not making any promises, but Ron and I are seriously considering becoming investors, and we reckon this could be a good place to start.
> 
> Looking forward to hearing back,
> 
> Harry and Ron  
> 

  
\--------

If by 'next time', Severus had meant 'never', then he was doing an excellent job so far at keeping his word. Not that he was pleased about it. The weeks leading up to the holiday break were always bogged down with extra work—mainly devising tests and assignments, then grading the resulting drivel that was turned in before the majority of staff and students left the grounds. That was of course on top of starting the progress reports for the students in his own house, a task he detested leaving until the end of the school year to dig into (Filius was notorious for this, and became a bit of a terror to any colleague who did not send the third-term marks of their Ravenclaw students to him on time).

For this reason, Severus had chosen (as he often did), to put his experiments in an extended state of stasis as soon as the end of November approached. His notes he tidied, and all stray thoughts he had relating to the experiments were documented with as much detail as possible to make returning to them after a hiatus less of a headache. It was an annoyance to have to set aside his work for such a long period, but time spent firmly away did now and again provide him with new, valuable perspective by which to evaluate his work.

A knock on the door to his laboratory jolted his concentration away from his preparations; he didn't need to guess who it was. In all fairness, it had been several days since he had left Granger high and dry near Gryffindor Tower, so while the timing of the interruption may have caused him some surprise, it had not been unexpected.

"What is it?" he snapped, in the middle of removing a decrepit piece of charcoal from its velvet-lined case.

Instead of a reply, the latch had lifted to allow the door to swing open, with Granger herself swanning after it into the room, something of a smile on her lips. He looked up long enough to shoot her an unimpressed glare.

"I thought I would come make myself convenient," she explained, looking far too amused with herself.

He rolled his eyes, watching her place a hand back on the door latch, her good humour not abating.

"I could leave."

He glowered—the wretched know-it-all—and beckoned her over to his worktable. It probably would have been kinder of her to have taken a jab back at him; instead she closed the door with a little knowing smile.

"What are you working on?"

"Nothing."

"Really?"

"I'm preserving, not working."

"What's that?"

"Charcoal."

"Well... yes. I should have said—what's it for?"

" _Merlin_."

Her smile became less knowing and more pronounced as she took a seat on one of the stools opposite him.

"No, really."

"It's for a stasis spell."

" _Charcoal_?"

"Yes." He resisted rolling his eyes—a herculean feat.

"But— _why_?"

"You don't know this spell?"

"No." Was that a defensive lilt in her tone?

"No, I suppose you wouldn't."

A scowl began to form in her features.

He smirked, just a little.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

Her scowl solidified, pulling his smirk along into stronger relief. He decided to take mercy on her.

"It's a _dark_ spell," he finally explained, infusing some mockery into his words. "Regular stasis spells don't actually work on sentient organisms—they work on objects, material that decays. This particular spell can be cast over a space, and will apply to everything that enters its radius." He raised his eyebrow at her. "It can be used on humans. It suspends bodily functions, needs—any and all thought. But too long spent under the spell, and removing it causes massive psychological shock, and from certain accounts, has been known to cause physical injuries as well—the brain, after all, is physical. Psychological trauma often begets physical trauma." Then he added, "it has been found that humans with magic fare far better than those without."

Granger listened to his explanation with growing revulsion.

"Of course, I have only ever used it for preserving potions."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"Not really." Her tone turned cool, dubious. "Last I checked, these potions and ingredients of yours were not sentient; why would you need to use dark magic?"

"Because I won't be touching them for several weeks, and it would be inconvenient to have to re-cast a stasis spells every three days."

"So this one lasts longer. You couldn't have said?"

He raised his eyebrow at her, attempting to hold back his amusement at her affront.

"Why else would I go to the trouble of using it?"

"Trouble? The charcoal?"

"The charcoal, your exhausting disapproval..." He picked it up, beginning to draw a circle on the table-top around the first cauldron.

"What are you doing?" Annoyance shaded her tone. The interesting thing about Granger was not that she liked knowing things—but rather that she hated _not_ knowing things.

"The charcoal is the main component of the spell; it delineates the radius of the stasis effect."

"It has a spherical influence then?"

"Yes."

"Really though—why charcoal?"

"I cut the palm of my hand with the same iron axe used to cut down the tree branch that became this piece of charcoal. I cast a stasis charm on the branch before throwing it into the fire. I then maintained the fire until the spell broke down naturally. Once the branch caught, I pulled it from direct flame and let the embers it had caught slowly transform it. During which time I had to breathe its cinders back into embers once every hour until they finally died completely. I have been using pieces of that same charcoal for the entirety of my adult life."

He took a moment to savour the look of morbid fascination on her face.

"But—"

"It allows me to incorporate Arithmantic figures into my spellcasting."

"Why have I never heard of it? That sounds in—"

"It's dark magic, Granger. Obviously. Not something you would have read about in the Hogwarts library."

"Oh."

He had not been able to help a snort. "Not that I have ever used it to cast with malicious intent."

"Could I... try it on one of the other cauldrons?"

"No."

"Why?"

"This charcoal is completely ordinary to anyone other than myself. Blood and breath link it to my magic specifically."

Granger continued to watch him with morbid curiosity, her eyebrows creasing until another question burst from her.

"Why _is_ it dark though? I mean, the charcoal itself..."

"Why is _anything_ dark? Result. Cost. Politics."

"Politics?" She began to laugh, thinking it a joke.

"Yes, politics."

At her bemused expression, he sighed, peevish, moving over to draw a circle around the second cauldron. "Our perceptions are shaped by the societies we live in, by prevailing opinions, by the decisions made through our governing bodies." He moved on to the next one. "Memory charms should be considered dark, but aren't classified as such. It would be far too inconvenient for our Ministry, for the Statute of Secrecy, don't you think?"

Granger grew quiet, looking down at the table, at the dark circles he drew.

"Veritaserum, as well—it is a controlled substance, certainly, but to classify it as dark would be to accept that it could no longer be used by the Ministry. As for the charcoal... in and of itself, it is harmless—it requires time, and a very small sacrifice to create. But it is used primarily in dark spells, and so, there is little other reason to create ritual charcoal than to use it to distasteful ends."

"But you use it just for these stasis spells."

"I never said that."

"You said you had never used it with malicious intent."

"No, indeed." He regarded her across the workbench, his thumb and forefinger smudged with coal. "Intent, however, does not save you from taking a wrong turn."

Her lips quirked, not to smile.

"I would stay to watch the rest, but I need to study."

"Ah, yes, mustn't get anything less than full marks."

He nearly recoiled at her answering glare.

Could not formulate a reply before she had stormed out of the laboratory.

\--------

> Hello,
> 
> Your letter was a nice surprise. I think it is normal for friends to lose touch after school, even if they are connected by filigrets (they hold the world together, you know, connecting thoughts and emotions to other thoughts and emotions—that's why people become friends, it's inevitable when too many of their strings connect). I never felt our filigrets detach, so I never bothered to worry.
> 
> I have sent you a copy of my revised proposal. It's okay if you don't find it very interesting. Everyone has different tastes.
> 
> Luna

\--------

"I haven't been this bored in years," Rolanda remarked wryly. "Imagine having no nefarious plots to deal with. What _will_ we do with all our free time?"

"Catch up on reading?" Septima suggested.

"Circe, you're as tame as my wife."

Minerva sent an unimpressed stare their way.

"Hello darling, magnificent meeting you've just held," Rolanda grinned without missing a beat.

Minerva's expression softened into something closer to exasperation.

"I wouldn't call books about parallel universe fracturing tame," Septima cut in, amiable as usual, "but to each their own, I suppose."

"I'm not certain what that is," Rolanda admitted, "but it sounds wicked, so I take it back— _not_ tame. Happy?"

Septima gave her a bit of a fond smile and a shrug.

Rolanda waved her away with mock-annoyance. "When I think of free time, I think of getting out of this castle." Most everyone in the room was listening to her go on with mingled amusement and interest. "Major sporting event? Concert? No? Even just going to a pub for a drink or some cards would be better than wasting away in the staff room!"

"There's a gobstones tournament coming up—those can get pretty wild," Filius suggested with a bit of a mischievous air.

"Oh, Merlin," Rolanda sighed, rubbing her face with her hand.

Minerva, across the room, had schooled her expression into a serious one, but it was cracking, and clear that she desperately wanted to laugh.

"I'd actually... _love_ to go to that," Pomona chimed in, giving Filus the thumbs-up.

"Oh, count me in, too," Bathsheda, the Ancient Runes professor, called out from the front of the room, "sounds fun!"

"Anyone else? I'll owl away for the tickets this afternoon." Filius waited a beat. "No? Ah well, your loss. Just the three of us, then."

Pomona sent him another thumbs-up for good measure. She certainly was liberal with those.

"Rosmerta's getting a band in next Friday, I hear," Rolanda said, trying to corral the interested faces back her way. "That would be a few days after the children head off—give you lot some time to get a bit of your grading done."

"Temptin', but I'm headin' down to the Hog's Head fer cards that night," Hagrid said, settling back in his oversized chair with creak. "Explodin' Snap, mostly. Though I reckon we'll get inter summat more... well." Hagrid laughed, seeming a bit self-conscious. "Always a lot of drinkin' goin' on."

"Any gambling?" Cleo, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, asked from her straight-backed chair at the centre table.

"Nah." He shook his head.

As the attention of the room fell off of him, sliding back towards the ever-vocal Rolanda, Hagrid caught Cleo's eye and mouthed _yes_ , most emphatically. She gave him a satisfied smile and a nod.

"Can I at least count on you to come with me, Minerva?" Rolanda asked, her long-suffering tone perhaps not as mocking as she wanted it to seem.

Minerva was regarding her with undisguised amusement now.

"I'll go." Aurora shrugged. "The sky will probably be cloudy anyway, the way things have been going this week. I suppose spending an evening at the Three Broomsticks wouldn't be dull."

Rolanda tsked. "You're not fooling anyone with that devil-may-care attitude."

Aurora slapped her on the arm lightly, trying not to laugh and incriminate herself.

"Actually... If I may?" The new Muggle Studies professor, Antoine Marant, glanced around the room, his expression open. "I am something of a music fanatic. Muggles are wonderfully prolific with it—I was already planning on going to London this Saturday for a concert." He smoothed a crease in the fabric of his trousers reflexively. "I never say no to company. Of course I am also interested in going to The Three Broomsticks on Friday as well."

"I'm certainly in for a trip to Muggle London," Rolanda said, her yellow eyes lighting up. "The rest of you are boring and can bugger off." She grinned and received chortles in answer.

Not from Severus.

Where was the joke? Buggering off sounded like an ideal holiday.

\--------

> Luna,
> 
> We haven't read all of it (there was a lot of... detail), but it looks interesting. You want to travel outside of the UK? Have to admit, research aside, that sounds brilliant, I could go for that myself.
> 
> The funds you're asking for seem a little low, but all the better... if you haven't had any other offers, from actual professionals, we'd like to make one.
> 
> We're going to go in, half-and-half. Once your book is ready, we'd like a little mention somewhere at the back, and then when it's out there on the shelves, we'll work out some sort of repayment schedule. No interest—no need. Also, as we're not proper publishers, we'll help you find one once the book is done. Harry's fame has got to be useful for something, right? Oh, he hates that I just wrote that, poor sod!
> 
> That's all, really. No idea how we're meant to be arranging this, but hopefully it sounds alright.
> 
> Ron & Harry

\--------

She was not in the courtyard near the greenhouses, she was not in the blue hallway on the second floor, she was not standing or sitting by the stained-glass windows, she was not slumped, reading, against a plant pot outside of the fiendfyre-charred chamber. She hadn't secreted herself away in the library—she was not in the Restricted Section, or the Arithmantic Cryptography section, or even on one of the benches between Charms Theory and Material Transfiguration (all three of which received good light at any time of the day). She was neither in the Kitchens, nor in the first floor broom cupboard by Firenze's classroom. She had not stayed after class to discuss her grades with Filius, had not taken shelter in the hospital wing, or gone out around the lake to visit Hagrid in his hut. She didn't spend her nights in the empty classroom on the fifth floor, she did not stroll along the portrait-filled walls just after curfew, searching for a place to read. She did not look out across the grounds from the astronomy tower, or climb the turret to the original owlery (storage, now). She was not to be found in the destroyed sections, or the renewed sections, or the unchanged ones.

She was in classrooms, and toilets, and the Great Hall, only during meals, only during the day.

But of course that was irrelevant; it wasn't any concern of his, where she was, where she wasn't.

\--------

> Hello,
> 
> I never thought you would accept, but it is true that sixth time is the charm...
> 
> I don't think that it would be sensible to give you a mention at the back if the book is already dedicated to all of my friends and my family member, but I don't mind doing that, if you'd like.
> 
> I think filigrets will hold us each to our words, but we could also make a contract if it will make you both more comfortable. You are making my dream come true, so anything is alright with me.
> 
> Luna


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends. This here is another chapter. This and the next chapter were originally meant to be one long, monstrous collection of scenes, but for reasons we won't get into, I decided to separate the huge chapter into two. Which means that chapter 10 will be out shortly. In the meantime... there's this.

In the weeks leading up to the end of term exams, Hermione found her once-formidable sense of focus deserting her. She attended classes, fed and bathed herself, but felt completely disinterested in doing anything more. She didn't need the library, picked instead from the small mountain of books she still carried everywhere in her magically-extended purse. All of which she had already read. She gave _Hogwarts: A History_ another pass, skipping over parts, her eyes losing focus, travelling up off of the page to stare at the wall opposite, or the inside of her curtains... whichever. She had read it so many times, she could easily recite entire pages verbatim, could picture them in her mind like maps. On page 138 there was a greasy smudge from bringing the tome to breakfast (fourth year). It was a partial thumbprint over the word 'plate', right at the beginning of the section about famous clubs. It irked her.

Hermione spent a lot of time staring: at walls, out windows, and at pages—blank or filled with print.

She did sometimes go read in the common room, would bring extra papers, rolls of parchment, in order to decorate a half-circle around where she sat, advertise her unavailability, her occupation with study.

Hermione was perhaps well-known, but she had never been well-liked, and certainly not by all the younger students she shared quarters with; she was too high up in her ivory tower of knowledge (or at least seemed that way) for anyone to feel able to approach her with something as mundane as an _are you alright?_ But that worked in her favour now. Or... didn't. Both. Neither? It didn't matter.

The day before the final exam that she would have to sit in order to be released for the holidays, Pig came to tap at her tower window, flapping energetically (as he always did) in the muted afternoon sun. The powdery snow that was falling dissolved wherever it touched his tufted grey feathers. Hermione stared out at him for a moment in bemusement, and then scooted up off of her bed to unlatch the small owl-sized pane in the window and let him in.

Pig dove in through the opening, and zipped around the ceiling of the tower dormitory several times, trilling and screeching with what they usually assumed was delight. Finally, after a minute of this happy fuss, he seemed to recall the missive he had come to deliver, and swooped down onto Hermione's bedside table where he stuck out his left leg and hooted softly. His small talons clung to the edge of the table's surface, his head and enormous eyes tilting in interest as Hermione took a seat back on the bedspread.

"Hello, Pig."

He hooted, tilting his head again, sidling closer.

"How did you know I left lunch early?"

A chirp; he waggled his left leg slowly, as if to remind her that there was still a rolled up letter there.

"Alright then."

Hermione removed the tiny scroll and gently smoothed the feathers on the top of his head with wry affection. At this, Pig hooted softly and puffed out his chest, fidgeting atop the table to get more comfortable. He closed his eyes, tucked his beak into his feathers and... fell into a doze. Typical.

Hermione found herself smiling for the first time in several days.

Cupping the scroll in her palm, she tapped it with her wand to end the shrinking spell and watched the parchment grow to three times its size. She broke the smeared wax seal and unrolled it.

> Dear Hermione,
> 
> Charlie has been back for almost two weeks now, comes and visits us almost every day. Not that he's a stranger to London or anything, but we've been bringing him around to see the sights, taking him drinking...
> 
> Yeah, mostly just those two things.
> 
> We convinced George to join us twice. Well. More like Charlie convinced him to join us. And it was good, just... sad, too. It's hard to look at George, just unsettling, to see him by himself. He started joking a little after a few drinks, but then he kept pounding them back and passed out completely... Anyway. It'll take time.
> 
> Really hope you haven't decided against coming back to Grimmauld for the holidays, I've been cleaning out your old room for the past week and I went out and bought you some good presents (joking—haven't bought a thing for anyone yet, but it is high on my imaginary to-do list). Not that you have to sleep in there. We can conjure a bed in mine and Ron's room, so don't turn that into an excuse. I will come and collect you myself, if I have to!
> 
> I really don't want to do that, though. Don't fancy crossing paths with McGonagall and getting the old disapproving stare... I know she would do it.
> 
> I hope you are still coming. A drink at a pub really isn't the same as sleeping under the same roof.
> 
> Going to cut my letter short now. Have to make lunch—Charlie is coming over (did I mention that he comes over a lot? He does). Then I'm going to take off for dinner, give him and Ron some brotherly bonding time. Not that they really, really need it. It's more me, feeling like I'm intruding just a little. Well, there's me in a nutshell. Expect I'll—

The bed dipped behind her and Hermione looked up, startled.

"Hi."

Hermione let out a breath. "Hi."

It was her own fault she hadn't heard Ginny come in: Hermione's frequent nights spent out past curfew had made it necessary to add a cushioning charm to the door so that she didn't constantly wake everyone else in the room with her comings and goings. The other girl moved further into the centre of the bed, leaning back against its footboard and crossing her legs.

"We haven't really spoken much since the summer—I've just been trying to focus on classes, and then there's been Quidditch, and my friends just... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to leave you out of things or anything."

"Ginny, it's completely fine." Hermione assured her, fighting a strangely bitter laugh.

"I guess," she conceded, shrugging. "I know you're always busy with your own studies, and I don't really want to disturb you, just figured—I wanted to come have a chat. You're coming home for Christmas, right?"

"Of course." Not home, but—close.

"Too bad Mum would never let me stay at Grimmauld Place with you lot for the holidays, but I suppose she might not object to a night or two. I'm going to go mad if I have to stay home the whole time—I understand, but my Mum—I need space too."

"I doubt we're going to get away from staying over at The Burrow for a few nights," Hermione assured her, "We can take some walks down to the village, maybe Luna wouldn't mind a visit..."

"I was thinking more along the lines of going to explore London together," Ginny replied with a sly smile.

"We can do that too," Hermione agreed, moving away from the edge of the bed so she could lean back against the headboard. "There are a few museums I really want to visit—"

"Oh, Hermione," Ginny cut in with a fondly exasperated smile.

"I _promise_ you'll like the Science Museum." Hermione was trying not to laugh, feeling somewhat self conscious. "Just don't tell you dad or he'll invite himself along."

"Not to worry," Ginny chuckled, "I'll keep that one close to my chest—Dad's been there before, anyway, several times. It was part of training for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, apparently, though I think he went on far more guided tours than was required of him."

"That does sound about right."

"Doesn't it." Ginny was grinning now, shaking her head. "Oh—Pig!" Her eyes widened, looking back over at Hermione. "Has he been there the whole time?"

"Yes."

"Wow, completely missed that—suppose he was sort of hidden by your curtains or—" Hermione snorted a little. "Oh, shut up." But Ginny was rolling her eyes with a self-deprecating smile.

"Hello Pig!"

He opened one eye, hooted sleepily at Ginny, and then closed it again.

"He's so sweet," Ginny sighed happily, before changing tracks. "Did my stupid brother send you something, then?"

"Ah, no," Hermione said with a bit of a chuckle, looking back down at the letter in her lap. "Harry just wanted to make sure I was still coming for the holidays."

"Oh."

The quiet churned and Hermione sought out Ginny's eyes.

"It's hard—over the summer we were together constantly," Ginny started, tucking overgrown bangs behind her ear, and avoiding Hermione's gaze. "I was... grieving." She stared intently at the bedspread, picking at the hem of her skirt while several emotions flashed across her face. "But being near him was so comforting—we could say _I understand_ and really mean it, you know? He reminded me I wasn't alone when I was having a hard time thinking about the future." Ginny looked up, giving Hermione a bitter smile. "You reminded me too, just in a different way."

Hermione sent Ginny back a sombre smile, reaching out to squeeze her hand.

"Being back here, though... I thought it would be different than last year, but it isn't." She shook her head. "No, I mean—obviously things are better now, it's just... I feel like he's still off on his own adventure, his own journey, and I'm here, in a life that's completely separate. I wish I could say it was all him, and feel this... this _uncomplicated_ anger. But it's me too, I think; he forgets to owl me, and I forget to owl him. And even if it is partly my fault, it's still... painful."

Hermione tried to keep the greater part of the dismay off of her face. "Have you... talked to him about this?"

Ginny gave her a sardonic laugh, though her expression was more self-deprecating than accusing. "Hermione. I've just finished telling you we _haven't_ been owling."

"Point," Hermione conceded with as much grace as she could muster.

"It's just so tiring, awful to think about. You know? What if things really do improve once I've graduated and am no longer stuck halfway across the country for the better part of the year?"

"You said so yourself, that things were better when you were together all summer," Hermione reasoned.

"They were," she agreed, with a sigh.

"Well, see how you feel over the holidays—go off and talk, sit together..."

Ginny had repositioned herself so that she was half-lying at the foot of the bed, and she looked up at Hermione with a small smile. "You're right, I'm probably jumping to conclusions."

"I didn't say _that_ , but if you can avoid it, all the better," Hermione chuckled.

"Stop being sensible."

"Never."

Ginny stuck her tongue out.

"Oh, wonderful—finally some intelligent discourse."

Ginny's nostrils flared in anger, but the laugh she was fighting back ruined the intimidating effect she had been going for.

"Other that all... that... how are your classes? Worried about NEWTs?"

"You're awful for even mentioning that word to me."

"NEWTs?"

"Don't say it a _second_ time!"

Hermione gave Ginny a probing look.

"I'm trying not to think about them," the younger girl admitted grudgingly.

"You really shouldn't leave your review to the end of the year, you know," Hermione cautioned her, "it'll all feel even worse if you do."

"I know, but I have Quidditch to deal with, and it's just honestly a nightmare to think about, most days—OWLs were bad enough, I can't imagine how NEWTs could be worse, but according to everyone and their mother..."Ginny heaved a sigh and let her face fall fully onto the bed, her cheek pulled taut by the bedspread. "And then there's the fact that so much of what I'm supposed to be committing to memory just feels like useless rubbish... when will I _ever_ need to remember the exact year that the Treaty of the Waterfront was broken? Or the names of all the clans that pledged to reform it after the resulting war ended?" Her lips twisted into a scowl. "Do I really need to know how to change a rabbit into a water pitcher? _Really_?"

"Do you want a serious answer, or some support?"

"Support, _obviously_!" Ginny cried, incredulous.

Hermione pressed her lips together.

"Oh, don't you dare—don't you dare laugh!"

Hermione couldn't help herself.

"You're awful," Ginny decided, groaning and pulling a pile of her hair over her face for cover.

"I'm really not that bad," Hermione protested, giggling.

Ginny suddenly swept the hair out of her face to give Hermione a glare.

"Maybe a little."

As soon as their eyes connected, Ginny's glare burst into a grin, dissolved into peals of laughter that filled the dormitory. Pig trilled and flapped his wings in alarm, and this seemed to bring Ginny back down to reality, to the spot she lay on Hermione's bed, clutching at her stomach and heaving for air. Hermione, meanwhile, was watching Ginny, bemused at the outburst.

Ginny caught her eye again and groaned, still laughing a little. "I have no idea, alright?" She covered her face in her hands. "I'm exhausted..."

"I'm certainly beginning to get that impression," Hermione commented with good humour.

"And—oh, Merlin... are you even finished your exams?"

"Almost. I have one more tomorrow morning."

"I didn't even think of that, honestly," Ginny snorted at herself. "I just finished my last one and I came straight back to the common room. I was so relieved to be done, I didn't even think about whether or not I'd be bothering you when I realized you were here."

"You know me," Hermione assured her with a small shrug that probably conveyed far more nonchalance than she actually felt. "I've been revising for weeks; a break is probably called for... And I'm certain, were Harry or Ron here, they would have dragged me away from my books long before now."

"Let's not talk about those prats," Ginny grumbled, covering her face again, " _please_."

"Alright," Hermione allowed with a chuckle. "Then... how's Quidditch?"

"You don't care about Quidditch," Ginny pointed out, deadpan, uncovering her face.

"I do!" Hermione protested. "A... little."

"Now there's an understatement," Ginny remarked with relish.

"Oh, shush."

"Well, if you really do want to know... Gryffindor is in first place at the moment—"

Hermione clapped her hands together. "Excellent, well done!"

Ginny waved her off, rolling her eyes, but looked pleased nonetheless. "Yes, we've got a good team this year—"

"And a good captain."

"I try." Ginny couldn't quite suppress a grin. "But anyway—Hufflepuff is rather strong this year too. They've changed their roster a bit, found themselves a very good keeper. Fourth-year who'd never been to a try-out before; she was a complete pain to deal with in our last game... it was near-useless to come at her with the Quaffle alone, we really had to go in pairs to try and confuse her. Good challenge, though, I've had to re-think some of our strategies." Ginny sighed, pillowing her head on her crossed arms. "Ravenclaw's been good competition, but nowhere near the threat that Hufflepuff is at the moment—they've got good teamwork and strategy, but their seeker is not quite up to par, so they score a decent amount of points but have not been able to actually win a game yet. Now _Slytherin_..." Ginny thought a moment. "They're a little pathetic this year. It certainly makes sense, considering, but I really wonder why they bothered forming a team at all."

"Considering what?" Hermione asked, somewhat taken-aback.

"Well, obviously... look at them. New students were sorted in, yes, but so many of the older students just never came back." Ginny glanced over at her. "Don't get me wrong—it was good riddance to most of them—but I do feel a tiny bit sorry for some of those first years. The team is a bit of a joke made up mostly of younger students. No one from the original team last year. Needless to say, they're firmly in last place." Ginny shifted in a way that might have been a shrug. "I suppose it might be a bit of a blessing, really. They've had to start from scratch, and they don't seem nearly as thuggish as the previous lot... maybe it's not too much to hope that they'll favour fair strategies from now on."

"I think... as long as we give them the chance, they might."

Ginny shot her a raised eyebrow.

"I'm not telling you to throw games in order to build their confidence," Hermione laughed. "I just mean, _in general_ —if we want them to change, especially those first years, especially the students that came back, we have to stop judging them all as being destined for cheating and mischief, for being mean-spirited. A lot of the really awful students are gone now, they're not potential mentors anymore—maybe we should try to make an effort with those younger students that are left, show them that we can put aside our own prejudices and see them as individuals."

"So... you think I should train them?"

Hermione laughed again, waving her hand. "I never said that, but it's not a terrible idea, is it? I didn't have anything substantial to suggest, it's just been in the back of my mind since the beginning of the school year. I just feel like this is something we have to find a way to change. We—we won the war, but..." Hermione looked away, staring at another, empty four-poster bed. "If we want to avoid another one happening, we have to encourage those children to join our way of thinking, not try to avoid them and hope that they'll do better this time. I'm not talking specifically about you, it's more—"

"No, no, I understand what you mean," Ginny assured her, cutting in. "But Hermione—that's... a lot easier said than done. Some of them have relatives who were only just incarcerated for trying to kill us, and you're right—you're _right_ —we probably shouldn't just assume they'll be the same as their parents, or their siblings, their aunts or uncles, but honestly... it is hard to change. It's hard to forgive that, what they or their families did. It's hard to look at them and not remember it."

"I know," Hermione said, subdued.

"Maybe you could convince me to force myself to change, but what about everyone else?"

Hermione shrugged, sat back against her headboard with a sigh.

"Well..." Ginny relented with a small frown, "Again, I don't think you're wrong. I just don't see how it will work. Not right now. Not yet."

Hermione's lips twitched. "Quidditch to social reform."

"The usual, yes," Ginny quipped, a smile threatening to squeeze itself onto her features.

\--------

Hermione agreed to join Ginny for dinner that evening in the Great Hall, only because, after several hours of conversation and companionable silence, Hermione had managed to convince herself that things would be different. But sitting surrounded by Ginny's friends and acquaintances was not the same thing as sitting together, just the two of them, talking: Hermione's voice was swallowed by their jokes, their idle chatter, their easy questions and commiseration. She belonged sitting next to Ginny on a porch step, maybe, but she did not belong at a table of people she barely knew, pretending that Ginny could tell whether or not she was there.

She didn't resent Ginny, who was funny, well-liked, compassionate, expressive, ambitious, and all-in-all good company to have no matter the occasion.

Instead, she berated herself for ignoring an important fact in accepting the invitation to dinner: She was not Ginny's friend. Hermione was, if anything, like a sister. An older sister somewhat removed from her younger sibling's life, but always there with love and support when it was needed. Ginny had her own vibrant social circle, one which Hermione was not really—did not _need_ to be a part of. If Ginny could easily tell Hermione all of her problems, if she could so easily display her vulnerabilities, it was because Hermione could be trusted, was Wise, would have Answers. It was not because they were in the same boat. They never had been.

It was a thorny realization to come to, each time. Gripped in just the right way, it was perfectly safe: Ginny looked up to her on some level, found her worth talking to. Gripped in another, it broke the skin: she was a confidante, not a cohort. The distinction was a small one, maybe. Certainly it would be to Ginny, who had so many friends, so many female friends—but to Hermione the distinction was a gulf. She spoke to Ginny in a language that was never returned.

She dealt with the disappointment in private, always.

Hermione answered questions where she received them, and chuckled a few times, but for the most part focused on her plate, on clearing it. She avoided looking up into the negative space at the high table, the seat that was occupied only half of the time, and always with a glower, the very opposite of enthusiasm. She excused herself early on, under pretence of needing to study, and left the Great Hall while reciting, in her mind, the passage about its enchanted ceiling from _Hogwarts: a History_. By the time she had climbed the first of several staircases to Gryffindor Tower, she had begun to feel marginally less sorry for herself.

When she began to undress for bed, she had an awful realization: she smelled. Hermione found that she could not recall the exact day that she had last washed—had only a vague recollection of _last week_ , the sensation of going to sleep with damp hair. The self-pity returned, and she took a moment to sigh deeply, close her eyes, and stand just at the edge of her bed. When she opened them, she was greeted with the sight of a still-dozing Pig, and the rumpled bedspread that evinced her earlier conversation with Ginny.

She gathered her things and struck out for the fifth floor.

Before her return to Hogwarts, Headmistress McGonagall had contacted her to discuss the unique circumstances of her schooling as an adult. They had discussed class schedules (Hermione had insisted on taking all the seventh-year classes she would have, had the war not interrupted the first time around), and then the concessions she would have as an adult among classmates who were not yet of age. The headmistress had waived her curfew, any restrictions on when she could leave the school grounds, and had offered her both her own chambers and use of the Prefects' bathroom.

Hermione had gladly accepted every allowance except that of having a room all to herself. There had been a time when she would have coveted the possibility of having her own space, free of Lavender and Parvati, of their off-putting vacillations between trying to include her in their lives and deliberately shutting her out. She was still a solitary creature, largely out of circumstance. But actually sleeping by herself was unbearable now, far too quiet and hemmed in. The awkward nature of joining the current seventh years' dormitory, a space whose membership had already been established and then remained unchanged for years, was preferable in comparison.

Hermione muttered the password to the Prefects' bathroom and slipped inside, a new change of clothes folded neatly in her old knapsack. All around the walls, flames leapt to life in their sconces, casting light that glitched in and out of existence over the stone floors. She locked the door behind her and moved further into the room, to the vanity which was tucked away from the stained-glass windows facing the tub. The varnish that covered its table-top had gone thin and waxy, missing in places where it had been scratched or worn down entirely through everyday use; its spindly, claw-footed legs had fared much better, still had a bit of a gloss to them. She set her knapsack down on a matching cushioned chair and took out her change of clothes, which she stacked in front of the vanity mirror. She placed her wand next to the neat pile.

The room was somewhat chilly, the air dry; a sure sign that no one had taken a bath there that afternoon. Hermione took off and left her shoes by the vanity, but did not remove her warm jumper or her jeans before heading over to crouch next to the tub's nearest taps.

In her fifth year (and to a lesser extent, her sixth), Hermione had tried to make use of the extraordinary tub in the Prefects' bathroom on a regular basis. This regular basis had turned out to be about once a month, as it required advance planning that she often forgot to work into her rigorous study schedule... The much smaller tubs (and showers) that were part of the dormitories in Gryffindor Tower, after all, were perhaps less enjoyable to use, but far more convenient. She really wouldn't have bothered with the fuss at all if it hadn't been for her mother's advice arriving over breakfast one morning in a letter.

_You'll make yourself ill if you don't take a bit of time to relax, Hermione. I'm sure they have bathtubs there, don't they? Have a bath—no studying. Just quiet. It will help you feel better._

Hermione had grumpily agreed to try it, despite a general dislike of getting her hair or her body wet, of having to feel damp and chilly afterwards. She had, after all, written home with complaints about feeling stressed over her O.W.Ls, and her mother had, after all, gone through the trouble of handing her sealed reply off to Tom at the Leaky Cauldron to take care of. It would have been unnecessarily obstinate, even ungrateful, to have refused to even try her mother's suggestion. So she had marched herself over to the Prefects' bathroom and had a perfectly adequate, hour-long bath.

Her mother, as it happened, had been right.

Hermione turned on two of her favourite taps simultaneously (foamy bubbles and rose essential oil), and then sat fully onto the floor to watch the water rush into the bottom of the massive, deep-set tub. Pool, more like. The stained-glass bay windows opposite her were dark at this hour, the firelight along the walls reflecting against them so strongly that it was difficult to pick out any colours or details. Not that it mattered. Hermione had seen them enough, stared at them enough, to know exactly what the mermaid in them, and her surrounds, looked like.

The last time she had filled the tub had been nearly two years before—she'd been angry with Ron, had decided to pamper herself out of spite, that much she could remember... but the reason why she had been angry was lost to her. Not five minutes after she had arrived at the bathroom in a huff and kicked off her well-worn loafers, there had been a plaintive meow just outside the locked door.

Crookshanks, of course, the little rascal.

Hermione had let him pad inside, his bottle-brush tail twitching, and had closed the door again, shaking her head with fond exasperation. Her ginger familiar had begun to purr, rubbing his cheek insistently against her shin, and had then sauntered off to make himself comfortable on top of a dry, folded towel that had somehow been left on the floor. He'd stayed there for the entire length of her bath, only blinking over at her, yawning, or stretching every now and again.

Hermione hugged her knees to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut.

It had been the morning of the wedding, the last time she had seen him. Crookshanks had leapt up onto her pillow and carefully stepped around her face, the fur on his belly tickling her forehead. His wet nose pressing briefly against her temple for a sniff. Hermione remembered groaning, trying not to laugh—reaching out with eyes still closed to give his rump an affectionate series of pats. Until he stopped her with a gentle swat of his tail to her face.

The first thing she had wanted to ask, when she, and Harry, and Ron, had been brought back to the Burrow was _where is he?_ But the timing hadn't seemed right. Instead, she had said, _I'll peel the carrots_. Hermione had kept that original, burning question under her hat for the night, but no longer. The next morning, when she was not awoken by the pest she had come to love and expect, she had stared at the ceiling above her cot and debated the most unconcerned manner in which to ask her question.

"Ginny?" She had ventured, when she heard the other girl waking. "Any idea when Crooks will be back?"

"Hermione..."

Ginny hadn't needed to elaborate with a pause like that.

"That day that you all left," she continued anyway, "we actually—" she stopped, taking a deep breath. "We have no idea where he went."

Hermione could remember, so clearly, her calm breathing, the strange lack of shock she had felt.

"I'm so sorry," Ginny had breathed, her voice thicker than normal, the sheets rustling as she turned away, on her side.

"It's alright," Hermione had found herself saying, swallowing the confusion and the grief. "He probably ran for the hills in the chaos, and has been living off the land ever since." She managed to force out a small chuckle. "He always has been very self-reliant."

"I hope so," Ginny had replied in a shaky whisper.

"He'll be fine, he will," Hermione had assured her gently, climbing off of her cot and on to Ginny's bed, "I know he will." Putting a hand on Ginny's shaking shoulder blade, she had insisted, in a soothing voice, over the other girl's quiet sobbing, "it's alright."

Hermione stared into the giant bathtub, her vision blurry, cheek pressed into her kneecap, as the water reached three-quarters of its capacity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who would like to be able to bug me for updates (or read about all of the things that distract me from putting out chapters on a more reasonable basis), you are welcome to take a peek at my LJ (borealgrove.livejournal.com) and drop me a disapproving comment, if you like. I really do post a lot of nonsense.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Snape ignores the motto inscribed on the Hogwarts coat of arms.
> 
> TW: baseless accusation of unintentionally exposing oneself to a minor. Please see the end notes if you would like an explanation of what the scene entails and/or reassurance.

The clearest difference between dungeon hallways, and those on above-ground floors, was in the carpeting. There wasn't any once you left the main landing. Well, aside from in the Slytherin common room perhaps, or Snape's personal chambers... but Hermione had never seen the inside of either. It was always unnerving to walk into the dungeons alone, and especially after dinner, when most students had already retired to their common rooms for the evening. It wasn't that the dungeons were all that much darker than other areas of the school—the sections that housed living quarters and classrooms were always well-lit, no matter the time of day. Instead, it was the echoing. The smooth stone walls carried sound with ease. It didn't help that some corridors had domed ceilings, that some corners were rounded instead of sharp angles. The lack of carpeting meant that hard-soled shoes could make for a very eerie walk when alone. Or make the echoing approach of another solitary wanderer unnerving.

The main corridors in the dungeons, always heavily-lit with torches, weren't quite as drafty as one might imagine, or cold, for that matter. As long as the soles of one's shoes were thick enough, very little of the chill could be felt. Complaints of the cold were voiced mainly by those students who visited the dungeons only for Potions classes—Snape wasn't one to keep a room comfortably warm, after all. On lecture days, it was chilly, and on brewing days, the classroom grew humid, even hot, with so many fires burning under cauldrons at once. Students would exit the room and break into cold sweats at the change in temperature. His office wasn't much better: it had a fireplace that was rarely ever put to use and uncomfortable wooden chairs that never seemed to warm properly with body heat . Hermione may once have given Snape the benefit of the doubt, attributed the frigid atmosphere to dungeons just being dungeons, but having gotten to know him a bit better of late, she felt fairly safe now in thinking that it was all deliberate. Any rationalization he might one day make about the cold preserving potions ingredients would fall on deaf ears: his private store room, after all, were perfectly comfortable.

Hermione hadn't planned to visit the dungeons after her bath.

No, she had intended to go back to bed in a mood (either cross or despondent—hadn't made up her mind which), take a crack at her notes for her exam the following morning, and then give up and go back to what she had been moping over before Pig (and then Ginny) had interrupted her. She had at least managed a small amount of enthusiasm, while shampooing her hair, at the idea of finishing Harry's letter, but it had fizzled as soon as the last of the lather had rinsed out.

Her thoughts had only shifted when the tub had begun emptying, leaving her shivering and tottering over to the far wall where she could grab a starched towel from a pile in a basket. She had every intention of leaving the school as soon as she had handed in her last exam for the term, had already packed everything away in her beaded bag so that she could set out immediately for an Apparition point in Hogsmeade. The alternative would be to spend two more miserable days in the castle so that she could take the Hogwarts Express back to London with all the other students—and that option didn't hold any appeal at all.

As much as Hermione loved Hogwarts, it had become a lonely place: an echo chamber for her not-so-pleasant feelings. 

Which was why she found herself trudging along the dungeon corridor nearest Snape's office, her hair still damp, and her knapsack slung over one shoulder. It just hadn't seemed right to leave without having said anything. Though she didn't know what she could tell him, quite how to explain. Would he even allow her the chance? Maybe he wouldn't even answer a knock, or he would ignore her, avoid her eyes, pointedly shut the door in her face. That would be convenient. Possibly unsatisfying. It _would_ be easier. But—

"Enter."

She pushed the reinforced door inward, its dull, steel bars reflecting the torchlight in the hall behind her; as soon as she had moved far enough into the office, the door shut again with a heavy _thunk_. Except for a grouping of fat, lit candles, which had been fused to the professor's writing desk by their wax drippings, the room was dark, especially after having walked through the comparatively bright corridors. There was a banked fire in the stone fireplace, its buried coals winking at her faintly from under the heaped ash. The air may have been warm earlier, but it wasn't anymore—not compared to outside, in the hall. Not with damp hair.

Snape was hunched over several scrolls of parchment at his desk (one unrolled), the nib of his quill scratching audibly in the relative quiet. Not a sound Hermione found pleasant—but then, she always had been partial to softer-tipped, self-inking quills. Whoever that scroll, that essay, belonged to was probably in for a disappointment; it did not sound as though their reasoning was holding up very well under Snape's scrutiny. He pushed it up further on the incline of his desk, and the top of the scroll (not very tightly rolled in the first place), spilled over on the other side, hanging limp and shuddering with each violent stroke of Snape's quill. 

The minutes ticked by.

Or so it felt like—Hermione wasn't about to belie her apparent patience by casting a tempus charm to check. Snape would enjoy that far too much.

So she watched him reach the end of the scroll, set his entirely-stripped quill into a cast-iron ink pot, and roll the essay back up into what was most likely a much tighter, much neater shape than it had arrived in. Only after he had sealed the scroll with wax, and recorded the (Hermione was certain) unfortunate student's marks in his grade book, did he look up.

"Granger."

She should not have come unprepared, should not have followed an impulse.

"Professor—I—"

"Came to ask for your marks early?"

"No," she bit out, surprised to hear how petulant she sounded.

He watched her levelly, his fingers clasped loosely below his chin.

"Interesting," he remarked, at length.

She pursed her lips in an effort to avoid voicing her frustration and Snape—the git, the _absolute git_ —began to look at her with something approximating amusement instead. That was simply not on.

"Happy Christmas."

That drew a scowl, almost instantly.

"I figured you'd enjoy that," she chuckled, with a strange sense of satisfaction.

"What do you want, Granger?" He asked with measured disapproval.

"I'll be leaving straightaway tomorrow afternoon, after my last exam."

"And?"

"And..." she hesitated, her earlier satisfaction already wearing off. "I didn't think I should leave without saying anything."

He continued to watch her, silent. So she watched back. Though with less confidence.

" _Happy Christmas_ was it, then," he finally remarked, tone flat.

"Maybe."

He shifted his head almost imperceptibly, eyes still cold.

Hermione approached the writing desk, its faint circle of light, and thought back to the last time she had spoken to Snape, weeks ago, in the supplementary lab. An explanation caught in her throat.

"Do you have any recommendations?" She couldn't meet his eyes, now that she was so close.

"For what?" His voice was tinged with irritation.

"Terrible manuscripts that would entertain me over the holidays?" She ventured, chancing a glance at his face; he looked drawn.

"What exactly has given you the impression that I have time for such frivolity?" The irritation still in his tone, thankfully, did not turn to malice.

She took a breath. "Nothing," she told him, deciding to be honest. "But you haven't told me to leave."

"Yet," he corrected her.

"Yet," she echoed, much quieter.

Hermione did look up properly, then, to find that Snape's scowl had returned, far more exaggerated now than it had been earlier. It made her want to smile, which was an odd, frankly stupid reaction that she wasn't quite ready to examine further. So instead she just let the impulse take her without giving it any thought.

"If you insist on disrupting me whilst I am in the middle of marking, then at least have the courtesy to do it while I have a drink in hand."

He sounded positively crabby.

She smiled wider—Merlin help her.

"Where would you suggest—"

" _Granger_."

She pressed her lips together to keep from chuckling—another odd reaction that she didn't want to consider too deeply at the moment—and watched him get up and stand in front of the floor to ceiling window at the back of his office. On sunny days (though she had not been to his office on many), the grainy glass pane let in greenish light from the lake; once the weather turned cold, and the lake began to freeze, began to collect snowfall, the window would remain dark, even during the day. Hermione supposed that Snape must have considered that a perk when he had first been given the space.

Snape got out his wand, and with his other hand made a series of slow, sweeping motions—she could hear him muttering. The window—swung inwards. Of... course. Of course it would. Hermione was starting to get the impression that Snape harboured a fondness for concealed entrances. He looked back at her with a disgruntled sort of expression, and then stepped through the opening he had created, probably expecting her to follow. She felt foolish in her worn loafers and corduroy trousers, knapsack still balanced over one shoulder, but approached the exposed doorway regardless, unwilling to pass up on the wordless (though hopefully not imagined) invitation.

The passage beyond was completely unlit, and curved immediately to the left; as soon as her back had cleared the window-shaped archway, it slid shut behind her, effectively locking out what little candlelight had been illuminating the rough walls. She could hear Snape continuing to move ahead of her, his cloak trailing along the floor (though the sound was faint) and did her best to follow, keeping one hand on a wall. It was little more than luck that she didn’t trip or smash her nose into a corner; but when the passage suddenly flooded with light, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and stumbled in shock. 

A log cracked off to her left, and a wave of heat rolled over her, along with the smell of wood smoke, ink, and something strongly herbal. Snape was sliding his cloak off of his shoulders when Hermione managed to open her eyes to the relative brightness of the room beyond. Aside from the crackling flames in a firebox tall enough for an adult to stand in comfortably (Flooing had clearly been common practice when it had been originally constructed), the high-ceilinged room was dotted with globes of soft white light, not unlike the sort she had seen in his privates stores the month before. An entire wall was set with floor to ceiling bookcases—another with windows draped closed.

Hermione stepped into the room, unable to help but stare around at the habitat of one Severus Snape.

In front of the fire was a black leather armchair, its seat cushion deflated and indented from years of continual use (there was another, but it looked nowhere near as inviting to sit in). Blocked from the warmth of the fire was a matching sofa, low-set and covered in books and papers, clearly never used for its intended purpose. The coffee table had suffered the same fate, though a tray with several pots of ink, his preferred stripped quills, and a sharpening knife had been set atop the mess, a light globe nestled in a pile of very small, weathered looking scrolls beside it.

Bundles of herbs had been hung over the mantle of the fireplace, to be dried, or smoked, and off to the side a glass-door armoire held shelves, and bins of similar, non-volatile specimens, all labelled in a spiky scrawl. One section of the bottom shelf was packed with a dozen different bottles of alcohol, and two sets of stacked crystal tumblers. His ornate wooden desk was on the same wall, but hugging the opposite side of the room, pressed up beside a covered window. It was heaped with notebooks, scraps of parchment, and tomes that had never made it (or been returned to) the bookshelves along the back wall; its matching, high backed chair had been mostly swallowed by one of his long, black woollen cloaks.

"Do you intend to stand there and gape at the wall all night?"

Snape was... untidy.

"Do you want a drink or not, Granger?"

And—it was warm. He had at some point tossed his heavy teaching robe onto a chair behind her that seemed to double as a closet, for all the outerwear that had been piled there (she could see leather gloves, and an unfamiliar scarf—a pair of thick-heeled boots placed underneath, next to one of the chair legs). Snape, meanwhile, was already over at the glass-door cabinet, studying the label of each bottle of drink, his black shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Yes," Hermione said, finally coming back to herself. "Well—what are you having?"

"Scotch."

"Right." Hermione tried not to grimace. "What else do you have?"

"What do you normally drink?" There was more humour in his tone than annoyance.

"Elf wine?" She ventured, hopeful.

He selected a large, bulbous bottle at the back and turned to face her, his sizeable nose upturned in distaste. "It's all yours." She approached him and took it, blinking. "Hooch gave it to me as a _gift_ two years ago on my birthday—she knows I detest the stuff. Thought it was funny."

She stood there, not certain what to do with the unopened gift (did he mean for her to keep it?), watching him turn back to the shelf and grab his own bottle (half-filled), and one of the crystal glasses she had noticed earlier.

"If you expect me to pour it for you..." he trailed off when he turned back toward her, voice dry as a bone. "The glasses are there."

Hermione nodded, hesitating slightly, and then went to take a tumbler from the shelf, shutting the cabinet doors behind her. Snape had already settled into what was clearly his leather chair and was working the stopper out of his bottle, his long (somewhat ink-stained) fingers wrapped around its neck. She figured the other, plump-looking leather chair just off to the side of the fireplace would be hers for the evening (or the one drink, depending on how things unfolded) and went to make herself comfortable, dropping her knapsack onto the floor.

By the time she had finished cracking and peeling away the wax that obstructed the mouth of her own bottle, and pried the cork from it, Snape had taken several sips of his scotch. She didn't have to look over to know. He let out a small, audible breath after each swallow. 

"I wanted something funny to read for the holidays," Hermione spoke up, after Snape had said nothing for several minutes. The elf wine (of decent quality) had warmed her chest from the inside after only two small swallows, the heat rolling off of the fire in waves doing the rest. She had already struggled out of her jumper and slid her feet partway out of her loafers and still she felt stuffy from the unexpected heat of the room. He said nothing. "I wanted to read Hilpenney's _Practical Woodworking Theory and Other Spells_ —I hear it is quite the imaginative text—but it wasn't in the library... do you think that Flourish and Blotts would have it?"

"No idea."

"Oh." Hermione took a larger sip of her wine, felt it slide down her throat in a lump.

"Not taking the Hogwarts Express back with your friends?"

She froze, the rim of her glass pressed against her lips, not breathing out for several heartbeats. When she decided to look over at him, it was to see him looking back, studying her with an impassive expression.

Her breath came out in a huff, and then another, just shy of laughter—the hysteric kind. "What _friends_?" She shook her head, narrowing her eyes at him in disbelief. "The ones that died, or the ones that elected not to return here?"

He didn't seem inclined to answer her.

"What kind of question was that?" She snapped, suddenly feeling like throwing her glass against the wall. "Really—you know I spend most of my time alone. You, yourself, have called me insufferable. Was that some sort of _taunt_?" Hermione very deliberately set her glass onto the floor by her feet, hand trembling. "You know I don't have any friends you horrible— _bastard_." She glared at him, shaking with adrenaline. "You know that, you have eyes! You're not an idiot."

He took another sip of his scotch, looking away from her and into the fire.

"Say something," she demanded, teeth clenched.

"Did you come to my office to tell me goodbye, Granger?"

"Did you want me to?" She asked, bewildered, slamming her hands onto the armrests at her sides in a surge of anger. "What does that even mean?"

"It means exactly what it seems to," he replied, tone even. "Why did you come to see me?"

"I told you already: I wanted you to recommend—"

"No," he cut her off, sounding bored.

"No?" She hissed, getting out of her seat, feet sliding back into her shoes. "If you know my mind so well, why do you need me to tell you?"

He stared at her, dispassionate. 

"You don't know me," she spoke for him, curling her lip in contempt. "What you know could fill a thimble, because you're more interested in putting words in my mouth than actually listening."

"And you're liable to stick my cock in your mouth at the first sign of an uncomfortable subject."

Hermione forgot how to breathe, and then exhaled in a controlled, ragged stream. She closed her eyes, barring her teeth, and then opened them again, clenching her fists. "You _horrible_ bastard."

"You said that earlier," he remarked, tone flat.

"It bears repeating," she spat, turning away from him, speaking instead to his cluttered desk. "I only came to apologize, but I don't know why now, I don't think you deserve it."

"I thought you came for a recommendation," he reminded her with something of a jeer.

"Yes, we've already covered the fact that you can _see right through me_ ," she snarled, turning back to face him with a glare. "Anything else you'd like to tell me about myself?" He stared into the fire, while she boiled, an unwatched pot. "No? Oh, how _will_ I sort out my thoughts without your input?"

"That _is_ a good question."

"Fuck you," she forced out, surprising herself with the vitriol, not certain anymore whether she was angry or hurt.

"That has generally been your reason for coming to find me," Snape said, finally turning to look at her again, his expression one she could not manage to interpret.

"No, it hasn't."

"I see."

"It's not like that," she insisted with measured distaste.

Snape watched her.

After a moment, she had to look away.

"Then what is it?"

It was her turn to ignore his question; he deserved it.

"Are you finally having your teenage rebellion?" He asked, tone hatefully casual. "Did you schedule it for after you came of age, or was that happy coincidence?"

"I'm leaving," she choked out, her vision blurring with rage.

"Did it excite you to reveal yourself to me in places where students could have walked past?"

Her entire body went cold.

"That is _not_ what happened." Her voice shook—with disgust or anger, she wasn't certain.

"Isn't it?" He asked, turning back to her, eyes narrowed.

"I knew it was you that was there, _every_ time," she forced out between clenched teeth, nauseated.

"If you're certain," he shrugged.

Her heart was racing, revulsion a stopper on her throat.

Snape's expression shifted, his own ire starting to show. His voice grew measured, dangerous in its quiet. " _What_ do you want from me?"

"I don't know," Hermione yelled at him, leaning forward with the force of it, " _I don't know!_ "

She choked in several breaths and then burst into tears, watching his blurred form look away. "What is _wrong_ with you?" She sobbed, her voice filling the room, "Why would you say such things? You know—" She pointed viciously at his turned back, gasping back air, "you know I would never— _never_ —"

She covered her face with her hands and sobbed harder, unable to get her emotions back under control—they ripped out of her, fell from her into a bewildered heap at her feet. 

"No," she heard him say at length, tone considering, "you _would_ never."

And it was like getting the wind knocked out of her a second time, his confusing agreement. "Then why would you even _allude_ to..." she couldn't finish, her thought hitching, like her breath into her hands.

"If you would never, then why did you?"

She took a heavy step towards him, balling her hands into fists, trembling with the effort of holding herself back. "I _always knew_ it was you," she howled at the accusation, chest heaving, searching his face for any sign of clemency. His expression grew more stony with each second in which nothing was said. Hermione drew in a shaky breath, tried again. "I always knew when we were alone—all I wanted—"

"Why me?" He interrupted her in a snarl, his expression immediately becoming shuttered; on Snape, it looked almost like desperation. She took a step back, shaking her head in disbelief. 

"Because I'm lonely," Hermione admitted in a grudging whimper, the sound of her own voice a shock, "and I thought you could understand, I don't know why, but I thought that. You're the only other person," she got out, her voice thickening, "that didn't come back, from..."

Snape watched her.

"But I misjudged you," she continued, stung. "I thought you were intelligent, and perceptive, and even funny, maybe." She covered her mouth with her hands, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking with grief. "But all you are is a bully, and a bitter old man," she cried, no energy left to infuse the pronouncement with the vitriol it deserved. "You don't care about anything at all."

"You're right," he agreed, finally sounding something approximating angry. "I wanted to die."

She sank to the floor, and hugged her knees to her chest, hiding her face.

"Why did you save my life?"

"Because _I had to live with myself!_ " she shrieked, jumping back to her feet, and pounding her affirmation into her chest, if for no other reason than because her body felt like a live wire, unable to sit still, shorting and arcing uncontrollably. "I needed my conscience to be clean. I couldn't do one more thing—" She pressed her mouth shut, shaking her head, glaring at him."It wasn't _about you_."

He didn't say anything.

"I couldn't see you there and do nothing," she spat, wiping at her eyes. "So terribly sorry I ruined you life. Won't be doing that again."

Places on her shirt were soaked through with anxious sweat, the by-product of all the adrenaline that had poured into her body of the course of so few minutes. She shook so badly trying to put her jumper back on that she eventually gave up and tried to cram it into her knapsack instead, feeling unsteady where she crouched next to it on the floor. She had to take a moment to breathe, leaning against the chair leg for support, when she had managed to close the clasps on her bag. Even next to the fire, she felt suddenly cold and clammy, her head pounding—how had she not noticed? She covered her eyes with one hand, and started sobbing again, a lump next to the chair, feeling as though she were falling apart.

How had she ended up here?

She started to stand, her head swimming.

"What was it that I said?" Snape asked suddenly, the same, alien desperation as before buried under a demanding tone.

She turned to look at him, at a loss. "Are you mocking me?"

"Not this time," he barked out, looking nearly agitated. " _Last time_."

It was a conscious effort not to stamp her heels and scream. She waited for the feeling to subdue.

"No," she said after a steadying breath, voice thick. "No, you don't get to ask that now."

"What did I do?" He repeated, looking at her with frustration.

"Haven't you hurt me enough for one night?" Her voice was low with grief, and she tried to meet his eyes, but found herself unable.

"Granger."

She closed her eyes and shook at the terrifying clarity of the plea.

"Why did you avoid me?"

"It wasn't _about_ you," she finally answered him, demoralized, barely able to get the words out around her tears. She stared at the hardwood floor, his lack of a reply pounding into her eardrums, and then announced, in a strained voice, "I'm going to leave now."

"I'll take you back through to my office," he said after a moment, his tone distant, closed, and she could hear him standing up.

Leather rustled over the deep groan of an old wooden frame.

The clink of crystal being set on the floor.

A breath in, ash, charred pieces of wood shifted—

with light and shadow up the walls

(and on the both of them).

 

Her heart raced.

 

"I killed my parents," she admitted, just in a whisper.

It wasn't a combination of words that she had ever strung together out loud—she had always imagined that the earth would swallow her whole if she did, or that she would be struck dead by lightning wherever she had been standing. Nothing happened.

"What?"

"It wasn't a sudden decision," she confessed, the rest of the words suddenly tumbling out, "I thought about it and I—thought about it, it was all I could think about and... they didn't know—not nearly—how much danger we were all in. I kept going over the pros and cons and suddenly there was just no more time, I had to go, had to. So I just did it, almost like I wasn't even myself, it was so easy," she sucked in a breath, shaking. "It was so incredibly easy."

Hermione could hear him approaching her, felt nauseated with self-loathing, but she couldn't stop.

"They're still alive but—they don't exist anymore, not as my parents, not as themselves—who they were. I erased them, they're simply gone, and I hate that I was able, that the universe let me—nobody stopped me, they couldn't have stopped me, I just willed it and it..." She started to sob, and she could see the watery shape of Snape's severe black boots in front of her. "They didn't even know what had happened, they were completely defenceless, they thought I was an intruder... they were so startled after, to see me in their sitting room, and they asked _who are you?_ and I couldn't say a thing, not a bloody thing—and then I—they chased me down the street, yelling out _stop, stop, don't take our cat, please!_ " She drew in a shuddering breath and covered her eyes. "They probably called the police— _a vagrant kidnapped our cat!_ " She laughed bitterly, sucking in air, finally looking up at Snape. Her sense of humour collapsed into a keening wail and she shut her eyes, unable to look into his. "I killed them," she repeated, the self-loathing making her feel sick, "they don't exist, do you understand? A memory charm, that's _all it took_."

"Granger—"

"I can't undo it—and even if I could..." She stopped, unable to finish the thought, felt like her throat was going to close. "I don't think—I'm not actually sure I... deserve to live."

" _Granger_ —" He had grasped her by the shoulders, but her entire body was throbbing, and she felt lightheaded, she had to use all her energy to stay upright. "Slow," she heard Snape enunciate at a distance, "down."

But that wasn't possible, because she needed to breathe, and the room was very stuffy, very hot now—she coughed, and the air she dragged in caused her to make a horrible noise, like she was choking, and suddenly she was. She opened her eyes to a wall of black fabric, and fell against it, down to her hands and knees, heart racing, unable to get enough of a breath in or out. _Granger_ , _Granger_ , he kept saying, somehow sounding both alarmed and frustrated. She felt a hand on her back, could see another, large hand on the floor next to hers. The earth would swallow her after all.

_Granger_ , came his voice, _how many floorboards are between your right and your left hands?_

They swam in front of her.

_Granger_ , it came again, _which part of the castle are you in?_

Then, _what did you have to drink?_

_Granger_.

"I—"

Whatever else she had meant to say was swallowed in a desperate inhalation, air meant for lungs that no longer seemed to be working as they ought to she couldn't breathe she remembered the last time she had been unable to breathe on a floor in a place maybe this place probably another but what did it matter she hadn't been able to breathe it had hurt so much more than anything else she had ever felt so much that she hadn't been able to think or take in air so much that her throat had given out and was that what this was She just kept laughing each time again _i think you haven't had enough_ anything anything she would say anything if only

His voice.

_What colour are my robes?_

"Black," she finally choked out in a wheeze.

"And what did you have to drink?"

"Wine," she whispered, after finally drawing a full, deep breath, and then letting it out in a sob of relief. The pressure of his hand left her back. It was several minutes of catching her breath, still on her hands and knees, before she could say another word. What she said was, "sorry."

"What for?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted in a murmur, still quietly making use of the tear tracks on her cheeks. She stared at the floor between her hands, the way it stayed there, flickered just a little where she wasn't shielding it from the firelight. She was too exhausted to feel mortified, but that didn't mean she felt able to meet the eyes of another human being; the floor was far more permissive.

"If you still intend to leave, do tell me so before I put in a request for my supper."

Hermione took a deep breath, willing herself not to explode at Snape's stuffy-sounding enquiry, and managed to mutter a _piss off_ at him with less than half the vitriol she would have liked.

"These are my chambers," he reminded her, sounding unconcerned. "I don't think I will."

So Hermione did the only thing she could think of.

She picked herself up off the floor, and returned to the chair that had been hers, recovered her barely-touched drink, sat down heavily, and all but drained the crystal tumbler of its contents. She then cradled her forehead in the palm of her hand, and stared at her feet (which she had slipped out of her loafers again).

"What shall I put down for you?"

"Nothing," Hermione mumbled resentfully, glaring daggers at her striped socks.

"Humour me," came his dry request.

"No."

" _Cheese on toast_ ," she heard him murmur to himself conversationally, with an edge of irritation, " _porridge_." There was a rustle that sounded like parchment, and then she could hear him picking his own glass up off of the floor to take a sip.

"I don't like porridge," Hermione told him, still glaring.

"The porridge is mine."

"Oh."

And for several minutes—until the (so-called) supper had popped into existence on a tray at Snape’s feet, startling Hermione half to death—nothing more was said, the atmosphere strained.

"The house elf assigned to my chambers is not fond of me," Snape remarked, matter-of-fact, as he bent forward in his chair to retrieve the tray. "She likely believes placing a meal slightly out of reach constitutes a major inconvenience on my time." He settled back into his seat, unfolding the cloth napkin that had been put, crumpled, on the tray, and picked up his spoon. "I rather enjoy her passive-aggressive larks." His spoon hovered over the porridge (the drizzle of honey on top almost made it look appealing). "Are you going to take this toast, or am I going to have to place it on the floor? The sight is apt to ruin my appetite."

"Oh, for—" Hermione huffed in annoyance. "Fine. Give me the stupid plate."

He handed it over with an infuriatingly bland expression.

Hermione rolled her eyes and balanced the delicate porcelain plate on her lap, trying very hard not to look at it. What a miserable wanker he was, to so casually hand her one of her favourite meals. A cad of the highest order. He could have written any old thing down—had it simply been chance? Her mouth watered at the smell alone, though she kept her eyes averted.

"I asked to remain anonymous," she found herself saying. "Who told you?" 

"No one."

A log cracked behind the grate.

"Then how?"

"Process of elimination," he answered simply, continuing after he had swallowed a small mouthful of porridge. "Though even with a Pensieve, the traumatic nature of such massive blood loss created holes and distortions in my recollection of the events. There is no sound in my memories, and viewing them is like watching a drop of water smearing all the writing on a piece of parchment. Basic shapes remain, but most detail is lost. Simply put, I was on the brink of death: you, Weasley, and Potter were the only ones in the vicinity. Neither Weasley nor Potter would have had the knowledge or the desire to save my life, which left you as the most likely culprit. I wasn't certain until you confirmed it." His spoon clinked against the side of the bowl.

"You don't owe me anything."

"I agree. I didn't want my life saved in the first place. That doesn't explain why you did it."

"I told you—"

"That you needed your conscience to be clear, yes," he interrupted with some impatience.

"That's the truth!"

"Perhaps not in its entirety."

Hermione gritted her teeth, looking away from him, and the fire, until her jaw relaxed. "If you know already, why make me say it?"

"I don't _know_ , I suspect."

She turned back to him. "I didn't want to see another person die in front of me, that _is_ the truth." Her mouth twisted into a grimace. "But based on the information we had, at the time, it was also true that while you were alive, Riddle wouldn't have mastery over the Elder Wand. So I also tried to save your life to buy our side time." She looked back down at the plate in her lap, at the toast, and felt a wave of self-loathing. "As I said: it wasn't about _you_."

"A sensible decision, then," he said, after a moment. "I would have done the same."

She frowned at the toast, hating it. With her free hand she picked up one of the two slices to take a bite.

"That really doesn't make it any better."

"I hadn't intended it to."

The cheese on toast was charred just enough on the top.

"Why did you dislike me so much?"

"Because," he replied, tone deceptively light, "I am a petty man."

"You are, yes." She stared into the fire. "But to be petty requires a reason. What was yours?"

Hermione could hear the bowl on the serving tray shifting with his weight, his spoon handle sliding and scraping its gold-plated rim. She could hear him breathing, but only just.

"When you look into a mirror, what you see is a reflection, which is an imitation but not an exact image of what another would see if they looked at you directly. If the backing of the mirror has begun to flake away, the reflection is even less complete. Perspective is lost."

"Yes, _thank you_ for answering my question," Hermione scoffed.

"You're welcome," Snape replied, sounding unbothered.

Hermione raised her toast to her lips, intending to take another bite, and then lowered it again, her ire getting the better of her. "Would it really be so terrible to explain the reason to me?"

"I thought I just did."

"No. No you didn't."

"I disagree."

"A poorly-thought-out analogy about mirrors is not an explanation for why you bullied me as a child, Snape. Try harder."

At this, he snorted.

"It's not funny," Hermione admonished, looking over at him when the snort turned into a series of chuckles. "It's really not," she insisted, before her lips wobbled and a chuckle of her own came out.

"It is, a little," Snape protested, his eyes crinkling just a little with mirth—the sight was a strange one.

"Why can't you just tell me the reason?" She shook her head, sighed with exhaustion, at her own inconvenient sense of humour. The anger had left her somehow, though it was still entirely warranted.

"Because, Granger," he said, starting to calm down, "if there's anything I've learned, it's that the why doesn't matter. Knowing never changes what has happened, doesn't somehow make it better. The only thing that can help is trying to make amends after the fact."

"And is that what you're attempting to do now?"

"I would think that if that were the case, it would be self-evident. Announcing it would be counter-intuitive."

Hermione shot him an annoyed look, and held it when he didn't react.

After a moment of this, he let out a very put-upon sigh. " _Yes_."

"That wasn't so difficult, was it?" She smiled, just a little.

Snape scowled at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is the only student currently at Hogwarts who is of age. Snape brings up the fact that Hermione has been "exposing herself" to him in situations where there existed the possibility of someone underage seeing. Hermione vehemently disagrees, saying that she "always knew" it was him watching, or that there was no one else around. Of course, we the readers know that Hermione had the Marauders' Map, and that nothing in the POV of Hermione, or Snape for that matter, would suggest that either of them wanted to "expose" themselves to anyone other than each other (Snape thinks on the subject a little bit in chapter six, and ends up casting a notice-me-not charm as a precaution).
> 
> As for why Snape would make such a baseless accusation? A tactic to throw Hermione off balance.  
> He is still very mistrusting, and easy to both anger and hurt. Water is wet.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty extraordinarily late with this one, I know. Life gets in the way, and procrastination is a real thing that happens when you don't eat enough broccoli (or when you read too much fanfiction--it _really_ could be either, I'm telling you).

"Oh, Snape, you crusty old arse, come with us!"

"Of course, when you ask so politely..." he trailed off, voice flat.

"Tonight has nothing at all to do with politeness," Hooch scoffed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Tonight is about getting completely rat arsed and celebrating the end of the term."

"Neither of which appeals to me."

"But you do enjoy being impolite," Hooch reminded him.

Severus sighed.

"Aha, I've got you there." Hooch clapped him on the back this time, grinning with her usual mischief. "Circe's sweet tits, are you going to come along, or spend the entire holiday being a stereotype?"

"Are those the only options?"

"There's really only one if you want Minerva to properly forgive you."

He strode on towards the dungeon staircase with no reply.

"D'you know... you really broke our hearts."

He stopped on the second step, left hand curling into a loose fist.

"I'm aware."

"We've sort of all come to terms with the fact that there were some things you had to do, that Albus had one last _grand_ plan—in his usual style—but knowing doesn't change all the months we spent believing that you had betrayed all of us, that you had killed Albus in cold blood." After a pause she added, "you had few friends to begin with."

"And getting pissed with the lot of you will fix things?"

"It would be a start—you may even get a shag out of it."

"I'd rather not."

"No shag then," she amended with a chuckle.

"Evening."

"Snape—"

He ignored her and descended the stairs that led to his chambers.

\--------

Granger had slipped away to Hogsmeade before lunch, not that he'd seen her go.

For an hour or more they had sat, the night before, staring into the fire and talking, drinking, sending one another glares from opposite sides of the hearth. She had eventually declared, with a tone of disapproval strangely devoid of animosity, _I'm going back to my bed now_. As if he had been the one keeping her. Impertinent. Severus had laced and buttoned himself back into full teaching attire, led her out through to his office, and said, _give Potter and Weasley my best_.

_I'm... not going to do that_ , had come the very matter-of-fact (if also exasperated) retort.

_As you wish_. Severus had settled behind his desk, taken his quill in hand.

And that had been that. She had shaken her head with resignation, mirth of some kind on her face as she had opened the door and closed it behind her, shutting him in with his marking. A task which he still had not rid himself of, a day later (no indeed, he'd added to it). He had taken breaks from it only to eat (moderately), relieve himself, and to give one last written exam to the fifth years, many of whose minds, judging by their frequently vacant stares during the allotted hour, had seemed already off on their holidays. Most of them so far had been a slog to get through, just good enough to warrant passing marks, but not good enough to avoid him having to scratch most of their answers to pieces with corrections (he had never been a fan of the multiple choice, or true-false formats). Still, as soon as he was able to get through his last two stacks, he could finally return to his research. The tabulating of the Slytherin students' yearly progress reports could be done on a far more leisurely schedule, as the other professors (several of which were currently having a night out) handed him the necessary marks.

His mind kept returning to the conversation of the night before.

The way she had crashed to the floor in front of him, gasping for air and forgiveness, two things that were out already in the world, and not for him to give. Her grudging quiet afterwards, then the staccato fall of her questions and accusations , driven not so much by anger but by irritation. She didn't view him as an authority figure anymore. Would not be intimidated. He had morphed out of a sexual fantasy and into a person. One with faults, more than was decent.

And to think, all because he had remarked that red tape was all that was holding memory charms back from being classified as Dark.

At least, he assumed that had been it. She had never deigned to clarify. Instead she'd drained the bottle of wine and gone limp in her armchair, legs splayed out in front of her as she told him how exhausted and restless she felt, how she was no longer certain she cared about her marks, how her future beyond the walls of Hogwarts looked amorphous. Somewhere into his third pour of whiskey, he had come to the startling conclusion that she considered him her friend. Something more intimate than a means to an orgasm, in any case. She had been confiding in him.

To what end, he had difficulty imagining. His general dislike of (and even contempt for) Potter and Weasley didn't prevent him from having some understanding of the sort of bond that would have been formed between Granger and the two of them over the course of the past year. To say nothing of the rest of the years they had spent together. The three of them had relied on each other for survival; it should have been to them that she went with her worries and frustrations. Unless, of course, Potter and Weasley were too self-absorbed to be willing to listen. That, he wouldn't put past them.

Granger was a nuisance, a strangely welcome, even interesting one, but what she got out of their conversations... well, if she found reason to return, he would have more opportunity for observation. 

Severus couldn't say now, what exactly it was he had hoped to achieve with his comments and accusations of the night before. He could admit, if only to himself, that resentment over Granger's sudden avoidance of him had made him lose control of his anger when she had finally turned up to apologize. Or what she had thought passed for an apology. He hadn't rehearsed his words. It had little to do with feelings—and everything to do with respect. He had no interest in building a rapport with another person who expected him to bear the brunt of divining and sorting out conflict. Had Granger stayed away, he would have put the situation easily out of his mind—it was her return, and her inability to acknowledge the slight he had (apparently) flung at her that had drawn his ire. Unintentional or no, the implication she had made was that he was too dense to notice the guise of her small talk. Or perhaps, at other points in their recent re-acquaintance, that the mere suggestion of sex was enough to make him lose his faculties of reasoning.

He had controlled his urge to lash out until she had begun to sip her drink, asking him if he knew where to find a truly insipid book about woodworking (one he had inherited from Albus, though that was utterly beside the point). It had reminded him of conversations with Narcissa, her grating habit of making polite conversation when she felt she had the upper hand, of beginning to hint at her grievances only after her mark had stewed in their seat to her satisfaction. So he had struck first.

While he had something of a talent for reading minds, it wasn't a skill he cared to use outside of a true interrogation. Legilimency took some finesse, especially to use it without detection, but it was still a means of gaining information by force, and Severus preferred to gain his information, when possible, through surface observation. Judging reactions, and provoking them, if he had to. Legilimency was much more difficult to explain away, if caught.

He placed a freshly-marked scroll into a box for secure storage, then unrolled another (thankfully one of the last from the third years), and began to read. If the previous essay had sounded uninspired, it was nothing compared to the one he was now evaluating: the student had misspelled 'stirring' in the first paragraph. Surely repeating a letter wasn't that difficult. Sod it all.

Realistically, it was a much smaller offence than flawed reasoning, but that didn't make the error grate any less on his nerves. He cast his eyes skyward, took a breath, and set about scratching the essay to shreds.

More than any other thing they had discussed, his unwanted rescue weighed on him. He had felt quite certain about the identity of the busybody who had saved him, but her rationale—what he had most wanted to figure out—had surprised him. Well. Not the rationale itself; he had thought of several plausible reasons why she might have decided to save his life. It was the rationale she gave him, her willingness to admit to motivations that were less than noble, that had taken him off-guard. He had never thought to hear Hermione Granger say, out loud, that she had placed his use as a tool in the outcome of the war over the intrinsic value of his life when deciding to save him. It was clear that the admission had caused her some self-loathing.

Not something he was unfamiliar with.

But more importantly, the admission had caused some of his own anger to abate. Not because he had suddenly discovered a joy for life; nothing so trite. The idea that a witch or wizard had decided to save him simply out of the goodness of their heart had been horrid. It was being given a burden he had never asked for, by someone who believed they were doing him a favour. Granger saving him for her own selfish reasons was another beast entirely: as she had been so insistent in telling him, it hadn't been about him. The decision she had made had been made for herself. In a strange way, he finally felt... dispassionate.

Not quite forgiving, however, when he thought back to the gruelling recovery he had been forced through. The first, unending month was burned into his memory as a lived nightmare of having no control over his body or his situation. He remembered the ceiling mainly. Eyes peeking over masks, when his vision began to manage some focus. Sounds. Smells. Very little sensation that was not pain or discomfort. Though he had been informed that analgesic, blood-replenishing potions and nutrition was being sent straight to his stomach using charmed tubing, he also knew the smell of a calming draught well enough to realize when a particularly strong one was being used on him; once a day, they would give him the potion, and remove whatever spell they had been using to restrict his movement. His mind would retreat even further away from the sickbed, and he would feel the faraway sensation of a nurse massaging the muscles in his arms and legs, bending them and straightening them slowly, in repetitions of three. Then, they would move his head, and bend his neck very slightly, forward and back, side to side, and through the calming fog of the potion, he would feel a burning, lancing pain, and be unable to voice his agony. He certainly had not put it past any of them to have skimped on the strength of the analgesics he had been given, and indeed, after several days of acute pain whenever his neck was stretched, the pain suddenly dulled. The days bled in to one another; it had been much easier to stay alert, to endure the recovery when he had been doing it out of spite.

After the first, shapeless month, they had finally stopped magically restraining most of his body, and rendering it limp with powerful calming draughts. He had not been permitted a wand, they had explained, 'for his own safety', though he had figured it more likely that the real reason was his continued inability to speak. He had, however, been given parchment and quill, and been allowed reading materials, when they came to raise the head of his bed twice a day so that he could look ahead instead of at the ceiling (they had not elected to remove the magical restraint from his neck). Nevermind that his grip had become so weak that the quill would slip out of his fingers whenever he tried to write more than a word, or that he could hold a book or a journal upright for only a minute or two at a time before the muscles in his arms simply gave out. Noticing this, some deceptively well-meaning nurse had turned on the wireless for him so that he could enjoy some music for several hours a day. 'Enjoy' was an overstatement. When he had written _no music_ on one of his parchments and exhausted himself waving for her attention so that he could point out what he had written with a tremulous finger, she had patted his shoulder and switched the wireless to a news station instead. When he had again exhausted himself to show her another message ( _no news_ ), she had sighed and patted his shoulder again, and said, "I'll turn it down, Dear, but I'm afraid I'll be leaving it on for several hours each day—you must keep your mind alert somehow".

What he hated even more than having to listen to the repetitive bulletins and interviews was having to admit to himself that it was, indeed, better than silently staring at the ceiling or the wall ahead, when his muscles would not cooperate enough to allow him some other diversion.

Voices crackled over the enchanted gramophone, informing him about the latest outcomes of the trials that had begun shortly after the end of the battle he had not meant to live through. Occasionally he would hear voices he recognized: the Interim Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the ever-irritating Percy Weasley, and of course, Potter. The first time he had heard that boy's voice fill the sickroom, he had managed to hold a fist for a record minute and a half (his hand had been useless for the rest of the afternoon). Potter had been asked to comment on whether the public funds being allocated to the Death Eater Severus Snape's recovery weren't better placed elsewhere.

"I gave my testimony and you've all heard the verdict; I stand by that. However you personally feel about him—and I certainly have my fair share of grievances—he is a war hero. Without his extensive efforts and the sacrifices he made, we simply would not have succeeded. He is receiving the level of medical care he deserves while the antivenom is being created. Thank you—No, no more questions, thank you—"

Potter had finally ascended to sainthood.

A much better emetic than any potion recipe Severus had ever come across.

A week or so into the second month, his primary Healer had come to inform him that a potions master in Turkey had developed a working antivenom, and that they would be able to begin giving him doses of the potion as early as the next day. There had been a catch.

"The damage to the tissues around the bite wound is extensive, to be frank. We will be able to repair it, but not until the venom is neutralized, and we can't be certain how long that will take; it could take one vial just as easily as one hundred. From what we can tell, without opening the puncture site further, the venom caused a lot of your flesh to corrode and necrotize. Unfortunately the effect appears to worsen the longer that venom stays in your body. Your oesophagus, trachea, and larynx are too damaged to use. You have no doubt noticed that we have kept you from moving your head or speaking; you may not have noticed, however, that we have re-routed your breathing. All of this is to ensure that we mitigate as much damage as possible. We are all optimistic that the antivenom will work and allow us to begin reversing the damage within another month, at the latest."

At this pronouncement, he had been given his first choice: a more comfortable but much slower reconstruction procedure, or one that was far quicker but would be both invasive and painful.

_Quick_ , he had written out, in a tremulous scrawl.

Severus had known better than most witches or wizards the effects of Nagini's venom, even before he had been personally subjected to it. It was something he had studied at Albus' request, after Arthur Weasley had been bitten and they had managed to retrieve a sample. It prevented coagulation of the victim's blood (among other, less pronounced, effects), and while the punctures from her fangs were large, which worsened the resulting blood loss, he and Albus had assumed the bite normal. Then they had heard about the Muggle stitches dissolving, and had realized their mistake.

At the time, Severus had taken this to mean that her venom was magically enhanced in some way, as even the most deadly venoms were not corrosive. Further tests had confirmed the presence of something Dark in the sample, but it had been impossible to tell exactly what. Severus remembered with clarity the troubled expression that had stolen over Albus' face at the discovery, and being rebuffed when he had asked what had caused it. Albus had left him for several hours, asking him to begin working on a formula for an antivenom that could excise the Dark magic along with the rest of the toxins that had been transmitted through Nagini's bite. An added infusion of bay leaves and nettles had done it.

It was nearly a year before Albus finally confided in him: Nagini was a Horcrux.

Not that Albus had ever used that term around him, or indeed directly let on that Nagini was one, but Severus had been able to make an educated guess based on the little that he did say. So many things, from that one conversation, had suddenly made sense. Potter, most of all. He had felt near-catatonic that night, thinking over what Albus had said, how obvious it all was—feeling an alien, fleeting sense of pity for the boy, who had been groomed for slaughter, perhaps from the moment he had set foot in Hogwarts. Severus still hadn't the faintest idea of how Potter had survived.

It took three weeks (and two more shipments) of daily doses of the antivenom potion before his Healer finally pronounced the venom neutralized. That same afternoon, Severus was given an analgesic potion, dreamless sleep, a calming draught, and then suspended onto his side so that the two Healers present for the procedure could better see the damage to his neck. He drifted out of consciousness just as one of them announced that they were beginning to 'make an incision'. 

When he regained consciousness, even before he opened his eyes, he could feel the dull throb of pain in his neck, once more immobilized. One of the nurses explained that everything had gone well, but that his body needed an overnight rest before the next part of the procedure; his neck was, at that juncture, an open wound being protected by a bubble charm, a large amount of flesh having been debrided to ensure that there would be nothing left to prevent the regrowth of the tissues in his neck. The nurse sat to massage his limbs, gave him doses of the potions he was to take (painkilling, sleep-inducing, calming), and then left him to drift off.

Severus was very familiar with Skele-gro and its equivalents, and so knew, even before they began explaining the procedure, that he would need to be given a weak, if nearly-ineffective analgesic in order for the other regrowth potions to work. He would continue to be given sleeping (not dreamless) and calming draughts to try and blunt the pain, but had been warned by his Healer, repeatedly, that it would not be pleasant. They would be working in stages, over the course of the week, regrowing cartilage, muscle, nerves, mucous membranes and fat—the surface wound, he had been assured, could then be sealed painlessly with an incantation. What luck.

In all honesty, the pain had not been nearly as bad as he had been led to imagine, but then, he'd been subjected to the Cruciatus curse several times. Everything else paled in comparison. He spent that week alternating between sleeping and feeling as though he would go mad, his neck twinging incessantly while he listened to reports on the reconstruction efforts at Hogwarts, quotes and statements from new appointees at the Ministry, and puff pieces about businesses in wizarding districts to try and convince witches and wizards that places like Diagon Alley were once again safe to visit for all members of society.

The day after they closed the wound on his neck, he had stood for the first time in two months.

That was about all he could do at first, his legs somehow feeling both rubbery and leaden, but each day after that he managed to stay upright longer, move about, take fewer rests on the edge of his bed. Several nurses attended to him throughout the first three days, helping him to and from his bed (his neck, still immobilized, made this task more difficult), and giving him inane tasks to do to improve his balance and the strength of his grip. They stopped giving him potions. Then his primary Healer came in and spent the better part of the afternoon removing the charms that had been re-routing his breathing, along with the ones that had kept him from being able to move his neck for two months; he was coached on how to breathe normally again. The new sections of his trachea burned with each lungful of air he drew in, but got better towards the end of the (very long) night. Two days later, he had been given a weak, lukewarm broth in a small cup, and instructed to sip it carefully, and it too burned on the way down, and went in the wrong pipe several times, resulting in painful coughing fits. But each day, with each new portion, he had become better, faster at downing the food, better at separating breathing and swallowing.

On the eighth day, a specialist had arrived at his rooms and announced that she would be working with him to regain his ability to speak. Two chairs with heavily-cushioned headrests had been conjured near the small window overlooking an alley and a sea of grey-tiled rooftops, and Severus had been instructed to walk over and take a seat. This he had done, with some difficulty. The specialist, Healer Paleott, had sat in the seat opposite him, instructed him to rest fully into the chair, and attempt to say his own name, to which he had let out a hoarse, meaningless croak of air. They had worked together closely, once a day, for several weeks; he had been cleared for discharge from St. Mungo's during that first week, after which Healer Paleott had visited him in his sitting room at Spinner's End instead. Time not spent on her repetitive speech exercises had been spent on drafting a curriculum vitae and reading through pages of job postings in The Daily Prophet in a attempt to find work. Though of course the result of all of his effort had inevitably returned him to the very place he had been attempting to avoid.

And thus his life had circled back on itself.

Severus scowled and tossed another marked essay into the secure box. 

\--------

> Luna,
> 
> My mum's probably already invited you and your dad to Christmas dinner (reckon she's invited half of wizarding Britain by now), but I just wanted to invite you myself. Thought you, me, and Harry could slip away at some point to discuss the contract for your book, and all sign it, I suppose. Not certain how this all is meant to work, but I don't think it should be that complicated. The less formal, the better.
> 
> Actually, sod it. I'm just going to ask. You're planning on doing a sort of expedition, aren't you? Can I come with you? Am I mad to even suggest it? I'm not trying to impose, you can say no of course... probably lots of things I could do to help. I make a wicked grilled mushroom... thing. Sounded a lot funnier before I wrote it down. Especially as that's a lie: I can't grill anything wickedly. Much less those rubbishy mushrooms... though they were all we had at times. Really, you don't need to take pity on me, leave me to my mad ideas...
> 
> Anyway, hope you decide to join us for Christmas, otherwise, let's pick a day and go meet at a pub to make the agreement official.
> 
> Ron

\--------

The air was sharp with cold, the packed snow on the path back to the castle nearly squeaking under their boots with each step. Minerva placed most of her weight on her cane, its transfigured steel tip digging down to the covered, frozen soil and helping her keep her balance. Her chest, as it usually did when it was quite cold, was giving her grief, but far less than it had two years before. She let out a heavy sigh.

Rolanda glanced back at her with raised eyebrows and half-smile, in the middle of listening to Antoine's recollection of his first trip up in an aeroplane (emphasis on 'first', as the man had gone back for seconds, Merlin knows _why_ ).

"Just my damned chest," Minerva muttered to her in explanation, probably looking a lot more bothered about it than she actually was. Rolanda often told her she had the air of someone whose last biscuit had been robbed from under her nose and Minerva could not, in good conscience, entirely refute her point. The students, and professors, and parents, and board, and policy-makers (and sundry) that she dealt with on a daily basis could be trying, to put it lightly. She didn't have a clue how Albus had dealt with it all without scowling or losing his temper. His portrait certainly wasn't divulging any such secrets.

She had to remind herself that it wasn't truly him, not the Albus she had been friends with, just a reflection of the man. Not quite a caricature—there was more depth to the portrait than that—but it was not _him_. He didn't know or feel all the things that the real Albus Dumbledore had, could not recall conversations she considered touchstones to their friendship, but out of necessity, it seemed: Albus had given his portrait a preference for Severus Snape, in order to ensure that his posthumous plans for the war could be carried out. Though if she were to be fair—which she tried to be in general—Albus Dumbledore had always held a strange fondness for Severus Snape. She tried not to give in to bitterness. The portrait was an idealized version of himself, another tool he had created to aid in the war effort, its true purpose (his legacy as a headmaster) a mere afterthought. The idealized version of himself, it seemed, enjoyed taking naps around those who were not Severus... and as the man hadn't really had much time for sleep while he had been alive, Minerva really couldn't find it in her heart to begrudge his portrait the luxury.

Albus Dumbledore had dedicated his life, his legacy, and for all she knew his _afterlife_ to the cause.

The war had consumed him in the end, by his own design.

A madman, he had been, and her closest friend.

"Hop on my back!"

"What?" Minerva sputtered.

"You heard me," Rolanda called out, doubling back towards her. A small but intense globe of light bobbed along behind her shoulder as she closed the short distance; one of her little creations, a modification of a charm normally meant to conjure and suspend a light source in place. She had devised it for flying in dim conditions as a more convenient alternative to holding a wand aloft, or affixing an inert source of light to one's broom with a sticking charm. But of course she—and all those she had taught it to—had found all sorts of other uses for it. It was always a pleasant shock to see a stranger cast the spell, to wonder how it might have found its way to them. Rolanda had never published the incantation or movement, had laughed it off as too insignificant, simple.

"I'm not going to hop on your back, you daft old woman!"

"Old woman?" Rolanda protested, mocking incredulity, "I'm still in excellent shape, my dear!"

The old woman in question scooped her up, quick as a whip, and made Minerva shriek in surprise before devolving into cackles that made her whole body shake (she would blame all the spirits she had drunk over the course of the night if anyone remarked on it).

"Put me down you absolute menace!"

"Oh, fine," Rolanda relented, sounding put-upon but wearing a wide grin.

Minerva smacked the flying instructor lightly on the shoulder when she had regained her footing, but was beaming, still catching her breath. "Do that again and I swear I'll transfigure your boots some impractical heels, maybe a frilled collar for your referee robes."

"Oh, Minerva, that's awful, truly inhumane," Aurora called out, voice filled with mirth.

"Have mercy," Rolanda barked out in a chortle, pulling Minerva to her side for a hug and pressing a kiss to her cold, reddened cheek.

\--------

> Hello,
> 
> My dad and I would love to come over to The Burrow for dinner. I think your mum may have come into contact with a Wrackspurt, though, as she seems to have forgotten to send us an invitation. Or else she may still resent the fact that my Dad tried to give you, Harry, and Hermione over to Death Eaters in order to rescue me. It wasn't a very kind thing for him to do, and I don't think it would have done any good for me, but I think when you love someone, you lose a bit of perspective. He certainly feels awful about it. I hope you won't hold it against him.
> 
> That's a very good idea. I was starting to think that I might need a friend to join me, actually. There is a type of Moon Shrew that only lives in northern Sweden and will come out of its burrow during the day only when there are strong filigrets nearby. There is also a bat rumoured to live somewhere in Slovenia that will willingly hang on arms that have been linked; there is an account of a whole family coming to hang on the arms of two explorers who had shaken hands once they reached a resting point during a particularly tiring climb up a cliff. They were a little shocked. And had to stand, mid-shake, until the bats decided to leave...
> 
> I don't mind grilled mushrooms. I have been studying edible berries and plants. I don't think I will do any hunting.
> 
> Luna

\--------

Severus was sealing the box of marked essays when there came a knock at the door; it flashed transparent with each beat upon the wood. Agnes Sewald, a prefect.

"Enter."

He ignited the coals under the grate with a muttered _incendio_ and summoned firewood from a box in the far corner of the room to feed the weak flames. Miss Sewald, and the younger student who Severus had not noticed hiding in her shadow, made their way to his desk, the wooden seats placed in front of it.

"Sit."

They did. The younger student, a first year named William Travers, looked pointedly at his hastily put-on shoes.

"What happened?"

Miss Sewald looked over at her younger housemate expectantly, but his eyes remained glued to his loosely-tied shoelaces, hands fidgeting in his lap.

"He had a nightmare, Sir."

"A nightmare," Severus repeated, in a neutral tone. "I see. What about?"

They both watched the boy, but no reply appeared forthcoming.

"He wouldn't say," Miss Sewald supplied, sounding more worried than she had likely intended to.

"That's fine—he'll speak in his own time." Severus continued to watch the top of the boy's head, willing himself not to sound too impatient. "Would you be able to nod or shake your head, at least?"

It took a moment, but there was a very small nod.

"Very well. Have you had this nightmare before?"

A nod.

"Is it something imaginary?"

The boy hesitated, and then shook his head, lowering it further.

"A memory, then." Severus resisted the urge to grimace. "Do you think you would be able to go back to sleep if we accompanied you to your bed?"

The shaking of his small head was insistent this time, and it precipitated the shaking of his shoulders, a noticeable hitch in his breath. He sniffed, the sound small and miserable in the still-warming room.

Severus picked a scrap of parchment off the top of a pile at the corner of his desk and transfigured it into a handkerchief; he reached out to pass it to Miss Sewald, who leaned forward to take it. "Hand that to Mr. Travers, for his nose." She nodded and held it near his lap until he accepted it. "Would it help to have a light beside you while you sleep?"

He shrugged his shoulders, still covering his eyes with the handkerchief.

"We will try that, then." Severus summoned a small, empty flask from one of the upper shelves along the walls and placed it in the centre of the desk. He transfigured another scrap of parchment into a cork stopper. "This will only work with your help, Mr. Travers. I expect your full attention."

The first year finally looked up, though only to the level of the desk, no higher.

"Concentrate on your favourite place, and imagine it appearing inside of this glass flask; I don't tolerate half-hearted efforts in my house, Mr. Travers. Look directly at the flask and concentrate." William Travers obeyed, though seemed once more on the verge of tears, his eyes shadowed from an evident lack of restful sleep; his expression cleared almost imperceptibly after a moment of concentration, and Severus decided it was enough; he covered his mouth with one hand, as if to rub at his nose, while his wand-hand moved under the desk, and muttered an incantation to illuminate the inside of the flask. He immediately corked it. "There. You will carry this with you at all times, Mr. Travers. You will ensure that it stays behind the curtains with you at night." Severus handed it over to him. "Take it. Have I made myself clear?"

He nodded, meeting Severus' eyes for a split-second.

Severus stood and moved towards a cabinet near the false window, opening one of the ornamental doors to retrieve a small vial. "I will now escort the both of you back to your common room, and then you back to your dormitory, Mr. Travers." The boy's eyes grew wide with alarm, and his gaze dropped back to his shoes. "I will hear no protests. You will take a potion that will help you to relax, and I will wait with you until you fall asleep. Should you wake again tonight, we will discuss another solution. Come."

It was more than an hour before Severus returned to his office, and then another three before he retired to his chambers, the remaining exams marked. His mind was still on Mr. Travers, however; students with similar problems had come to him in past years, and a calming draught and light were not normally enough to keep unpleasant memories at bay. He needed to involve the boy's parents, or at least gauge what sort of memory was fuelling his nightmares, though he already had suspicions. Otherwise, the first year would be at his office door each and every night, relying on a potion and his Head of House standing watch by his window, in order to fall asleep. Severus would never get any work done.

He composed a short letter to Mr. Travers' parents to simply inform them of the nightmares; he would determine their level of concern and decide whether involving them further would be in the boy's best interest. Once he was satisfied with the wording, he rolled the missive tightly, sealed it with a blotch of black wax, and placed it in the inner pocket of his teaching cloak. He would send it out with an owl first thing in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a more serious note, I spent hours researching different types of snakes and their venoms, and then several more researching how antivenoms are made, how they work, what recovering from a tracheotomy can involve... Really fascinating stuff, but very little made it into this chapter. This was another case of procrastination. My brain convinced me that all the research would be incredibly useful, and then chuckled at me when I believed it. But I still learned things, brain.
> 
> _Who's chuckling now?_
> 
> Until next time, friends.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a relief it is to _finally_ post this overdue chapter! Some notes regarding my posting schedule for the rest of the summer at the end ('schedule'? Never met her). Now, on to what you're actually here for...

Hermione knocked, waited a moment, and then opened the narrow front door, her beaded bag preceding her into the equally-narrow entrance hall. 

"Harry?" She bent down to unzip and step out of her boots. "Ron?"

"Hi Hermione." She nearly jumped, but calmed when she registered whose voice it was.

"Oh, Charlie—hello." Hermione set her bag gently on the carpeted floor and shrugged out of her cloak, hanging it on one of the ornate silver hooks by the door. "How are you?"

"Fine, thanks, just hiding from my parents—nothing new there." A little self-deprecating chuckle. "How are you?"

"Good, fine," Hermione replied automatically, the smile coming along with the words. "Enjoying my classes."

"I don't think any of us doubted you would," Charlie said with a small laugh. "Any favourites so far?" There was a faint whistle coming from further into the house. "Kreacher started the kettle boiling for tea before he skived off to who knows where... I'm going to get myself a cup—you want one as well?"

"Yeah, erm, sure," Hermione answered, fighting the strange urge to laugh. She picked up her bag, slipped the strap over her shoulder, and followed Charlie to the door near the end of the hall that branched off into the kitchen. "Are Ron or Harry here?"

"Ron's just upstairs, actually, said he needed the loo; should be down soon. Harry's out on an errand." Charlie patted the old, waxed dining table as he rounded it, and headed for the old iron stove, where a teapot sat atop it shuddering and expelling steam. "What'll you have?"

"Oh, it's alright, I don't mind helping," Hermione assured him, placing her bag in her usual seat and going over to the cupboards to take out three teacups and their saucers, lining them up on the counter in front of her. The sugar pot was already sitting out by the breadbox, a sure sign that afternoon tea had turned from indulgence to habit in her absence, so she went to get a jug of milk from the cool pantry instead (or 'posh magic fridge', as her and Harry liked to call it). Charlie was already directing a teapot filled with hot water over to the table by the time she turned back around, the sugar pot following it lazily in midair. He was giving her a bemused look.

It was times like these that she felt her Muggleborn heritage most clearly, in the very natural instinct to walk to retrieve her food, in how strange the notion of making a cup of tea with anything other than her own two hands was. Hermione returned Charlie's expression, and then they both shared a sheepish smile. Neither the Hogwarts House-Elves, nor Molly Weasley had ever tolerated help or company in their kitchens for long; most of the time she had spent in kitchens had been with her parents, her father teaching her how to use the oven when her curiosity had been too all-consuming to ignore, her mother drying the dishes that Hermione washed by hand after each supper. The kitchen, for Hermione, was still a Muggle place. She summoned the tea tray from where she knew it was stacked inside a cupboard and placed each teacup on it by hand, brought it over to the table, and sat. Silence stretched between them.

"It's habit," Hermione finally explained, feeling just the slightest bit of embarrassment, her sheepish smile still firmly in place.

"Oh, it's fine—I wasn't—it's just unusual to see," Charlie chuckled, seeming to be feeling some embarrassment as well. "It's nice, nothing wrong with it."

"I didn't—"

"Oh, you're here?"

They both turned their attention towards the doorway.

" _Really_ Ron, you didn't hear me come in?" She couldn't help the exasperation.

He shrugged, but was wearing a small smile. "Lot of echoing in that old bathroom—good to see you, 'Mione." Coming over to where she sat, he bent to envelop her in a light hug, squeezing her shoulder once, just as lightly, before completely letting go.

"It's good to see you too," she finally managed to tell him, with a small smile of her own. 

"Well, sit down, then," Charlie told his brother in a dry tone.

"Where's my tea?"

Charlie caught Hermione's eye and gave her an incredulous look, which she mirrored.

"I'm joking, keep your collective underthings on," Ron groused, expression turning complacent as soon as he'd sunk into his seat; he summoned one of the teacups over to his spot and pointed at the teapot. "How long's it been there for?"

"Not long enough," Charlie warned him, eyebrow raised.

"You're really not a good judge of these things," Ron told him matter-of-factly, turning to Hermione instead with an expectant look.

"Two—or three minutes, I suppose," Hermione replied with some hesitation, the slight rise of her voice a question.

"Charlie doesn't consider it tea unless it's too bitter to drink," Ron explained, thoroughly unimpressed.

"He's exaggerating, obviously."

"I'm really not," Ron assured her, looking serene as he directed the teapot to pour the pale, orange-brown tea into his cup.

"Enjoy your glorified sugared milk," Charlie bade him with mock-politeness.

"Oh, I will."

Hermione watched as Ron absently directed the milk to pour, his spoon to fetch a mound of sugar, to stir. "Harry's not back yet, is he?"

Charlie shook his head and Ron turned his attention back to Hermione. "Been driving Kreacher mental," he supplied, setting his wand down beside his saucer and relaxing one of his large hands on the table, the other supporting his chin. "He's moved on from making the occasional batch of biscuits to cooking meals every other day; started buying groceries and what Kreacher has taken to calling 'unnatural filth'—that's Kreacher losing his mind over aubergines being in the pantry... suppose those born into the Noble House of Black weren't too keen on them."

"I'm pretty certain he just doesn't like eating or using anything not from the garden," Charlie snorted.

"That hasn't stopped him from taking trips to the butcher, and wherever it is that he gets the milk and the eggs from."

"And the cheese."

"Oh, yes. Wonderful stuff."

"Can't imagine what _Grimmauld_ Cheese would taste like."

"The name alone is enough to put you off."

"You had mentioned Harry and cooking?" Hermione reminded them, wry.

"That's exactly what we've been discussing," Ron protested, though there was an air of mischief about him. "I give him another hour... he's been taking the underground thing around instead of Apparating, going to Muggle food markets, trying to blend in. I suppose it's helped somewhat with dodging attention, but the _fans_ will cotton on sooner or later. Been finding it bad even in Hogsmeade, and you know they usually don't go in for that kind of nosiness."

"I still think he should be Apparating out of the city and into small, Muggle villages."

"Then he'd be recognized as an outsider straightaway—and the larger towns and small cities are likely to carry about the same risk of being spotted as anywhere else... he's resigned himself. Think he's been enjoying that underground though. No idea why. Noisier than a pack of rampaging hippogriffs, and smells just as... strong."

"Buckbeak's not here, mate," Charlie laughed, "no need to worry about offending him."

"Old habits," Ron shrugged. "Harry said it would be chicken for supper, and he probably won't let you help him, but he may let you watch, if you're lucky."

"Listen to this bitter old man," Charlie barked out in a laugh.

"Well he does it all by hand, doesn't he, the nutter. Makes everything take three times as long—and there I am, pushed out into the sitting room, starving..."

"I weep for you, my dear brother."

"As you should!"

It was not until halfway through a story about a recent niffler incident on the dragon reservation Charlie worked at in Romania that Harry had shown up, shoulder weighed down by a linen bag bulging at the seams. Hermione, Ron, and Charlie had dragged Harry into the kitchen, forced him to drop his stuffed bag onto the counter (where it slumped over and spilled a few vegetables), and given him the lukewarm, bitter cupful left in the teapot to sip to the end of Charlie's story. As Ron had predicted, Harry had declined all offers of help with supper after Charlie had finished regaling them with the uniquely frightening (and comical) experience of returning stolen gold to a dragon's horde. He hadn't forced them out of the kitchen, however, encouraging them instead to remain at the table and talk while he worked. Harry had looked downright cheerful emptying the linen bag on the counter, organizing its contents, sending some things away to the cool pantry or the cupboards with a flick of his wand. He transfigured the empty bag into a pair of oven mitts (to Ron and Charlie's general amusement), and continuously banished food scraps to the compost bin at the other end of the kitchen, but otherwise left his wand in his back pocket.

The kitchen was warm and inviting after an hour of the stove flames, the fireplace, several candles being lit—and supper lived up to the anticipation. Hermione was surprised, taking her first bites, with how much Harry had improved since she had last eaten his cooking. The vegetables had been removed from the heat before they wilted, the chicken still juicy and sautéed in a far thinner coating of herbs than she remembered (she could actually taste the meat itself), and the rice had been combined with mushrooms and some sort of cream sauce instead of being left bare. Hermione fought a strange urge to cry as she took the first bites, considered how much she had already missed by having chosen to return to Hogwarts, felt both gratitude and guilt for being alive to enjoy another Christmas with those that were left. She looked up at Harry periodically to beam instead. 

After they'd cleared away the plates, Charlie said his goodbyes, bundled up, and stepped outside to Apparate, citing a slice of tart at the Burrow with his name on it as the reason. He hadn't managed to tempt anyone else into accompanying him.

"Harry, I'd have understood if you wanted to go," Hermione assured him as they were all climbing the stairs to the second floor bedroom that Harry and Ron shared.

"Why would I?" He asked, amused. "You've only just got here."

"Ginny, obviously."

"Oh—right, well, of course, but—I thought Mrs. Weasley would want some time alone with her, that's all. I didn't want to take away from that."

"Mum's probably already giving Charlie a bit of a yell over him missing supper," Ron noted in a wry tone. "Best save any visits for tomorrow after everyone's had a good rest."

Hermione decided not to press Harry further. "Is there still space for me in your bedroom?"

"We cleaned it out specially for the occasion."

"Thoughtful."

"Even asked Kreacher to clean the sheets."

"I still think—"

"He refused," Ron continued, tone dry. "Said he had more important things than laundry to do this afternoon, and left. We assumed he left, anyway. He pops in and out more often these days. So we did the laundry ourselves. Personally, I think it was just payback for Harry announcing his intent to make supper while we were having breakfast this morning, but that's just me."

"Good for him," Hermione smiled. "Kreacher, I mean. He's his own person, and it's certainly not going to harm either of you to do your own chores."

"You may want to hold your approval until you try the bed."

Ron hesitated.

"I may have overdone it with the soap."

"I'm sure it's fine," Hermione laughed, reaching the landing and heading to open the bedroom door on the left wall. "I'd rather it smell too clean than too musty."

"It's not so much that it smells clean than what it smells _of_."

Hermione stopped and closed her eyes, taking a long breath in. "Ron."

"I _like_ vanilla!"

Hermione took another breath in; from the doorway the smell was only faint. "I suppose it's not nearly as bad as musty sheets," she relented, somewhat grudging.

"That's the spirit," Harry encouraged her, slipping past her into the room and heading for his bed. "It smells like Mrs. Weasley's Christmas biscuits in here—if that's not festive I don't know what is."

"In my defence," Ron said, holding his hands up peaceably, "I sort of forgot how much you hated the smell."

"Well it's fine in _food_ —but, oh, Ron..." She huffed, uncrossing her arms and moving over to her own bed. "Honestly, who uses vanilla to scent their laundry soap?" She shook her head. "No, no. It's fine. I'll survive."

"Don't pin it all on me. Harry never stopped me."

"Oi!" Harry barked, shooting Ron an annoyed look. Ron raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.

"Oh, quiet down, you're both equally to blame," Hermione tsked, shaking her head and dropping her beaded bag onto the freshly-laundered (and powerful-smelling) linens of her bed. Which had not been made.

"Sort of... also forgot," Harry admitted with a wince.

"Anything else I should be aware of before I go put on my pyjamas?" Hermione asked with an exasperated laugh.

"No, I think that about covers it—we didn't forget the elf wine, if that's what you were worrying about."

"You can always count on us when it really matters."

Hermione couldn't think of a single way to phrase a reply, and started to laugh instead, fondness and despair for how her life had changed combining to form a temporary, indescribable emotion.

\--------

"You can kill me... but it won't help—you."

He was wearing a twisted, viciously-painful looking smile, let out a short, horrific laugh, before his eyes closed and the expression slipped from his blotchy face. He was sweating, his chest shaking, uneven with breath, as the tattered train of black robe skirted the spreading pool of his blood and swept out of the condemned shack.

As soon as the door closed, Harry drew his wand and pushed aside the crates that had been shielding them from Voldemort's notice in order to drop into the room, where Severus Snape lay in a pool of his own blood, feet and hands twitching hideously with the last of his energy. Hermione was terrified of getting closer—her entire body wanted to run in the opposite direction. But they couldn't let Harry go alone. She felt Ron take her hand, and then they both followed their friend through the hole in the wall into the room below.

Harry stood frozen over his childhood tormentor, the toes of his shoes just shy of the radius of blood.

Then the dying man's eyes opened again, unfocused, and looked blankly up in Harry's general direction, one of his arms bending with terrible effort so that he could point a blood-soaked index finger at his own temple. Something silver, not quite gas or liquid, rolled out of the corner of his left eye.

"Is that?" Harry breathed.

"He looks delirious... I doubt he can even see us," Ron whispered.

Hermione reached her shaking hands into her bag and summoned a glass vial, pushing it into Harry's empty right hand. Hermione watched, struck dumb, as Harry collected memories into the receptacle, Snape's eyes slipping closed again before Harry had secured a cork over the unexpected offering.

"Why would he do that?"

"He's dead, Hermione, it doesn't matter now," Ron told her, still in a lowered voice.

"No—no, he's not." She ignored Ron's hand reaching for her and lurched forward, pushing Harry aside gently to kneel down in front of her former professor. "He's still breathing—" Her fingers vibrated with distress, so that she couldn't be certain if the flutter in Snape's wrist was actually his heart or her own. "I can feel a pulse," she told them with more certainty than she felt, teeth chattering with adrenaline, "he's still alive, I—I researched snake bites when Mr. Weasley was bitten, I might be able to save him."

"Hermione—"

"Why else would he give us memories if not to help us? Those don't leave a mind unwittingly."

"Hermione, I don't know that he deserved to die this way, but..." Harry trailed off with a shudder. "He wanted to bring me to You-Know-Who, and... he's lost a lot of blood."

"We need to get back to the castle, Hermione," Ron insisted. "We need to put our efforts elsewhere and end this before more innocent people get hurt. This is a lost cause, surely you can see that?"

Her stomach churned at the tangy, warm smell coming off of the dying professor, but she gathered her courage and pressed a hand to the equally-warm, weakly pulsing wound at his neck, her hand slipping twice before she could manage to keep steady pressure on it. "I'm sorry, I really can't let someone die without at least trying to help. Just go, if I... can't do it... if he dies, I'll join you both straightaway."

"But, Hermione—you can't just stay here by yourself—"

"Cast the wards."

"We don't even know what's in the memories," Harry snapped, frustration getting the better of him, "Why would you risk your life for him?"

She heard Ron let out a ragged breath. "Do you think he'd do the same for you?"

"It doesn't _matter_!" Hermione retorted, feeling suddenly frantic with anger. "And he'll probably die anyway! I don't _care_ what he would or wouldn't do—you heard You-Know-Who just as well as I did! As long as Snape is alive, he can't access the full power of the Elder Wand." Her teeth were chattering again. "I don't know how long I can keep him alive if I stabilize him, but maybe it would buy us more time—maybe he really was trying to help us, maybe he wasn't—if he lives, we can let the Wizengamot decide. If he really is a traitor, then he can spend the rest of a long, miserable life in Azkaban, but I will not watch another person bleed to death in front of me and do nothing." Hermione shot her two friends a glare, imploring. "We will not _be like them_."

"Hermione—"

"I'll be okay," she ground out, her jeans already soaked black with blood, hands spattered with it where they pressed over Snape's ragged neck. She tried to keep calm, remember the passages she had read about treating snake bites, but the instructions kept scattering in her memory, thoughts skittish at the urgency of the situation. "I'll—"

"It's not safe!" Ron cut her off in an ill-advised yell. "Have you lost your bloody mind?"

"Ron— _quiet_!"

"Harry, she's not thinking," Ron shot back in a quieter, but far more furious tone. "We cannot simply leave her here—she'll be a sitting gnome! It is not safe! And I am not willing to leave her for a Death Eater to find just so that she can try to save this bastard!"

"I agree with you, _obviously_ ," Harry bit out, sounding frustrated, "But we can't just—"

Voldemort's voice reverberated through the room, making all three of them jump, and Hermione's hand slide down Snape's neck in shock. An hour, he offered their side. An hour of clemency from a madman. Hermione let out the breath she had been holding, heart pounding hard in her chest. She could work in relative safety now, but that would be of no help if she couldn't make her mind settle down enough to think, if Harry and Ron kept wasting time arguing with her. She needed to focus—the man rapidly dying at her knees had nowhere near an hour to come back from the brink.

_Snake bites, snake bites... venom—blood won't clot—stitches? Mr. Weasley's dissolved—two years ago. Older venom more potent: possible._

_Horcrux: venom even more potent?_

_Blood-replenishing potion... blood-replenishing potion... one vial. Enough? No choice. One shot._

_Pressure first. Stasis? Useless on wound. Useless, useless... no time, no time, focus._

_Focus._

_Pressure. Slow or stop bleeding. Can't restrict airflow. Tracheotomy?_

_Don't know how, don't know how—could kill him._

_No choice. Pressure needed could crush windpipe. Internal bleeding possible. Saw it on telly last summer—focus. Maybe... a longer one. No incision. Enter through mouth. Less risk. Transfigure sturdy, shatterproof tube. Safer._

_Think: could go into oesophagus._

_X-ray charm. Could still go wrong._

_No choice, no choice. Focus._

_Pressure. Need hands to be—can't hold wound and cast. Sticking charm, sticking charm, and... spells to apply pressure too risky, too imprecise. Focus, Hermione—focus._

_Pressure... pressure... weight. Controlled force. Stone. Stick thick cloth to wound, hold in place with stone. No—no, too rough, possibly sharp._

_There's no time—think!_

_Cushioning charm: larger stone. All of the force, less damage. Put one on the other side of his head to keep his neck from shifting._

_Too many things could go wrong. Neck could fracture. Too many things. You have no idea what you're—_

"...Hermione!"

She flinched, then took a deep breath. "I've got an hour, and I know what I need to do," she told them with more confidence than she felt. "I just need to do it, maybe a bit of luck. We need to be better than them, we _need_ to."

"This is not—"

"I'm doing this," she insisted, starting to feel anger at the way they were wasting time, "it _is_ safe for the next hour, I am not going to leave someone to die—especially not when this could help us win the war—and you're going to have stun me and drag me back to the castle if you want to stop me."

There was a heavy, distraught silence.

"Promise us you will put yourself first at any sign of trouble."

She nodded.

" _Promise us_ ," Harry insisted, sounding torn, and sick with worry.

"I promise, I promise," she breathed, feeling her eyes well up. "I'm sorry, but I promise, I _will_."

"Come on," Ron insisted, distressed, "Harry—" He gulped. "Hermione, You—"

"I have to try," she bit out with a knot in her throat. The rise and fall of Snape's chest was almost imperceptible, and she had to admit to herself that she could no longer feel a pulse in his neck. She frantically tried to recall the lessons she had taken as a ten-year-old on CPR, while also fervently hoping she would not need to use them. "We are going to win." She steeled herself. "The right way—or not at all."

"We _will_ see you later," Harry told her in a firm tone that left no room for argument. "You send your Patronus as soon as your wand hand is free."

"Of course," she said with a laugh that didn't sound anywhere near the nonchalant tone she had intended. She spared them a glance, looking into each of their eyes in turn, as though giving them a blessing, one had no power to bestow. They looked as lost, as terrified as she felt. As resolute.

"Oh, Hermione..." Harry breathed, squeezing her shoulder, hard. "Please be safe."

She nodded, her vision blurring.

Ron bent to kiss her cheek, unable to say a thing.

Then they were gone.

Some nights, the memory returned to her as a nightmare, its details stretched out, bent, and diluted into a version of events that had not truly happened. Others, she couldn't keep her eyes closed, the memory replying like a film or a series of photographs, honing in on specific moments, thoughts, sensations, while glossing over the rest. In either case, her recollections were incomplete; too immersive to allow for any objectivity, or else not immersive enough.

The nightmares were easy.

Not because they lacked teeth, but because once awake, they could be firmly identified as fictive, at least to some degree. Consciousness became a relief, crying a way to safely deal with emotions which, under an allowed delusion, could be seen as by-products of a bad dream rather than a bad memory. Sleepless nights, however—mornings, afternoons that were too quiet—delineated certain memories with carefully set edges. Exact words, exact thoughts, causes and effects chaining to possibilities and definites, moral grey areas spawning like mushrooms, mycelia stretching further back than one might have wished, for connection. Crying became less a way to safely deal with emotions than an uncontrollable reaction to shame, to confusion, to inescapable grief. If it happened at all.

Hermione lay on her side, staring at the wall opposite, the room shaded in a gradient of blue-black, moonlight streaming in from the only window too weak to support any other colours. Harry and Ron slept soundly, each of them breathing in very different, but steady rhythms. She could only close her eyes for minutes at a time, turning over, fidgeting, considering each wall as she went, as past events played in a voluntary loop so that each time they could be considered from a different angle.

But the chains of reasoning in the events were too convoluted—too realistic—for even her to pick apart, no matter how many hours, how many nights she devoted to the undertaking.

\--------

Four days passed without fanfare, the three of them relaxing around the kitchen table, lounging in front of the fire in the sitting room, and making a general mess of their cramped, shared bedroom. They never did make it to The Burrow, each of them complicit in supporting and maintaining Harry's flimsy excuses.

Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had laughed so often, so hard; Ron was in top form, especially when Charlie dropped in again for an afternoon, each sharp, pointless jibe loosening the painful clamp on her chest. She supposed the elf wine could be equally to blame. She bundled into a knit throw that Mrs. Weasley had brought over to the house in the fall, and listened to Harry ramble on about food, picking a plate of his homemade biscuits clean. Watched him and Ron re-enact encounters they had made out in Muggle London, interrupting one other incessantly and frequently dissolving into shared laughter when their explanations were not enough to wipe the puzzled look off her face. _You had to be there_ , they would say, with great humour.

And maybe she should have been.

"Either of you recognize that owl?"

Hermione looked up at its tawny plumage, its large orange eyes peering in at them from where it sat in the planter box outside the window, and shook her head along with Harry.

"Well, it must be from someone marginally trustworthy if it could find us through the Fidelius."

"Should I let it in?"

"Go ahead," Harry said, unsheathing his wand. "I'll immobilize it if it doesn't seem friendly."

When Ron slid open the window, the owl shook tiny flecks of snow from its feathers, and glided gracefully over to the kitchen table to settle in front of Hermione. It stuck out its leg, where a small, tightly-rolled parchment had been tied with ribbon and set with wax. Somehow, a name had been written there, squeezed in underneath the spartan bow, the cramped handwriting unmistakeable:

_H. Granger_

Ron was already beside her, peering down at the missive (the owl ruffled its feathers importantly). "Is that...?"

Within seconds, Harry had rounded the table to look over her other shoulder. "I would know that stupid handwriting anywhere." 

"Why the hell is he bothering you with a letter during your _holidays_?"

"No idea," Hermione laughed, unable to help it at seeing their miffed expressions. "But I've been using some of the space in the supplementary potions lab since last month to practice brewing things not in the Hogwarts curriculum, and I was granted access to the school stores too, so... he's been supervising."

"Probably worried you'll make off with one beetle eye too many," Ron scoffed, rolling his own eyes so hard Hermione was half worried he'd lose them in the back of his head.

"Oh, I'm sure," Hermione agreed with mock-seriousness, cracking apart the wax seal and untying the ribbon from the owl's leg. It preened its right wing for a moment and then, realizing there were no tasty scraps in sight, took flight again and glided back out of the open window. Ron sent an absentminded spell after it, to slide the window down and shut out the cold.

She unfurled the top of the parchment carefully, sitting back and angling herself so that it would be more difficult for her friends to read along; Harry went back to his seat, for which she was thankful, but Ron settled into the one next to hers.

"What does it say?"

She made a show of scanning the letter. "It says I should read chapter nine of Previn's _Base Solutions and Essential Tinctures_ before I decide to show my face in the lab again."

"What a git."

A vial, no bigger than her pinky finger, slid out into her palm as soon as she had unrolled the letter completely.

"What the hell is that?"

"Seems like he sent me a bit of homework," Hermione replied with some amusement.

Harry was shaking his head with a disbelieving scowl. "Can't believe I testified for him."

"Harry."

"No," Ron countered in support of Harry, glowering at the scroll, "you'd think having his life saved would make him the tiniest bit less of an arse."

"My mistake," Hermione said dryly. "Giving homework over the holidays is exactly the sort of offense that warrants a life sentence in Azkaban. Even more so when the homework is for a voluntary, independent course of study."

Harry held up his hands in surrender, though his expression was still thoroughly unimpressed.

"A month or two behind bars might have given him some appreciation for the freedom of a holiday, is all," Ron said, managing a reasonable tone.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer." Hermione shook her head, trying not to smile, and began to read what Snape had actually written to her.

> H. G.
> 
> Have you passed my well-wishes to Potter and Weasley yet? Surely their holidays would be ruined if you forgot to do so. The castle is full of Christmas cheer, and an absolute nightmare to walk through. I suppose it's the sort of merriment you'd enjoy, though I personally feel that Minerva has gone overboard this year. She encouraged Filius, the day before yesterday, to recommence his choir with the students who had elected to spend their holidays at the castle, and we have been 'regaled' with Christmas carols at every meal since. I expect you may soon find yourself in a similar predicament. 
> 
> I've enclosed a vial of my preferred headache potion.
> 
> Do try to make it last.
> 
> S.S.

  
"Look at her, smiling about _voluntary_ schoolwork ," Ron pointed out in mock-disgust.

"Indecent," Harry agreed. "Utterly indecent."

Hermione shrugged and stopped trying to hide her grin. "Much more decent than wishing prison time on an innocent man."

"Oh, come off it!"

Still smiling widely, she raised her eyebrow at them.

"He's not that innocent," Ron grumbled.

Harry raised his mug of tea to the sentiment and took a swig.

"Well, at least you're doing something properly holiday-esque with Ginny this afternoon," Ron conceded, pausing for a moment to think. "What is it you're doing, again?"

"We're going to the Science Museum."

"Almost sorry I asked."

"I take it you've no interest, then."

"That would be a no. I think me and Charlie are going to go pop in to the shop in Diagon Alley... whenever he finally turns up, that is." Ron took an unimpressed sip of tea. "Suppose Ginny's fixing her hair or something."

Hermione shot him a flat look.

"Fine, I don't know why they're late, they just are."

She sent him a sarcastic smile, and got one in return. Then they both broke down into chuckles.

"I'm, erm..." Harry looked up from his mug of tea. "I actually just realized—" He glanced over at the cool pantry, leg starting to shake with nervous energy. "I completely forgot to buy cabbage, and there are some other things that we may as well get, but mainly the cabbage. I really should run out to get that... think I might make supper tonight." Harry nodded to himself, took two large gulps of his tea. "I'm gonna go get dressed and... do that."

"Alright..." Ron replied, sharing an uncertain glance with Hermione.

"Great!" Harry jumped out of his seat, banished his mug to the sink, and dashed out of the kitchen. Several minutes later, he thundered back down the steps, leaned into the doorway, and said, "send word by Galleon if you're not going to come back home to eat!" Then hurried out the front door as though the place were on fire.

"Ron, is he...?"

"He won't tell me a bloody thing," Ron shrugged. "Not that it was very obvious before he started rushing out the door at the mere mention of my sister's name, but for the past few weeks at least, he's been changing the subject whenever I bring up Ginny."

"And you haven't tried to corner him?"

"Hermione."

"What? You know he bottles things up."

"And he's being a bit of a prat, yes," Ron allowed, "but I'm pretty certain cornering him is just going to make him clam up harder, or go into a rage over our prying."

She reluctantly nodded her head in agreement, drained the last sip from her teacup.

"That's true, but—" A series of sharp knocks rang through the entrance hall; Hermione let her train of thought drop with a small sigh. "That'll be them." She started to get up from her seat. "Look—we should try to talk to him later, before we fall asleep."

Ron nodded, clearly humouring her. "Yes, well, 'try' is the operative word, isn't it?" He stood up from his seat at the table to follow her out into the hall. "I'm calling it now: Harry is suddenly going to have a burning need to make a midnight snack and dash out of the room."

"Then we follow him," Hermione snorted.

"Right, yes, I never would have thought of that," Ron deadpanned.

Hermione glanced over and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Oh, _there's_ a new one!" Ron laughed; Hermione quickly lost her resolve and grinned, just as she was reaching out to open the door. "Hello!"

"Hi!" Ginny squeezed past her eldest brother on the doorstep to enter the house. "You're not ready yet?" She shook her head at Hermione with fond exasperation. "Anyone else coming? Harry? Ron? Nevermind, Ron—you're not invited."

Ron shot her a wounded look.

"As if you wanted to go in the first place."

"I don't _now_ ," Ron countered in mock-offense, grabbing his cloak off the wall and shoving his feet into his boots. "C'mon Charlie, it's clear we're not wanted here."

"Pretty sure you're the only one being kicked out," Charlie smirked.

"Oh, shove it."

"Such respect," Charlie sighed, giving Ron's shoulder a rough clap. "See you both later." He gave Hermione and Ginny a short wave and then turned, Disapparating with a pop, on the spot. Ron followed suit.

"I'll get my bag, and I'll transfigure my cloak in a minute—there are biscuits out on the table if you want one."

"That's fine, I'll just wait here." She closed the front door and settled onto a bench near the boot rack. "You never did say whether Harry was coming."

Hermione sighed inwardly, wishing that the man in question were there to answer for himself. "He left a little while ago for the supermarket—forgot something when he went last," Hermione told her as honestly as she could, her voice carrying down the stairwell as she jogged up to the second floor bedroom. "And he didn't seem very interested in the museum when I asked. Probably intends to shut himself in the kitchen all afternoon."

"Harry mentioned all the cooking he's been doing in his last letter... Rather, he spoke of that and nothing else." Ginny's lips were twisted in reproach when Hermione came back into the hall, bag in-hand, and a plain grey scarf bunched around her neck. "It sounds like he's been enjoying it." She seemed to be trying to school her expression into something less negative, so Hermione focused on her cloak, on how she wanted to change its shape to make it less conspicuous for their trip to Muggle London. Ginny had already done her own, transfiguring it into a smart-looking, double-breasted wool coat. Hermione gave up on creativity after a minute of intent thought, and cast with something very similar to Ginny's design in mind.

Ginny was giving her a look of dry amusement when Hermione glanced back over.

"I really don't have an eye for any of it," Hermione explained, feeling somewhat defensive.

"I'll take it as a compliment," Ginny laughed, sounding marginally more cheerful. "At least the colours are different."

"I'm not completely hopeless," Hermione sighed in exasperation, though she managed a smile as she shrugged into the coat, a boring black to Ginny's rather vibrant blue.

"Can't be good at everything," Ginny shrugged good-naturedly, standing back up. "Get those boots on and let's go."

"I'm going as quickly as I can," Hermione protested without any real resentment.

"Says the witch sitting down to zip her boots up by hand."

"Honestly."

"I think I'm more excited to go walking around Muggle London than I am about the museum."

"Don't quit on me now, Ginny."

"I'm not, I'm not," she laughed, opening the front door. "I'm sure it'll be interesting. I _have_ learned a little bit about science in Muggle Studies, you know."

"Prepare to be awestruck." Hermione flashed an indulgent smile up at her.

A small gust of chilly air pushed hair into Hermione's eyes as she straightened back up, and then she was following Ginny out the door, shutting in the gloom of Grimmauld Place behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to participate in two fests this summer, and both entries are due in August. That is what caused this chapter to be so far off my normal (ish) posting schedule, and is what will cause chapter 13 to either be delayed until late August, or else be a much smaller, 'bridge' chapter until I can devote my full attention to this series again at the end of the summer. My notes for the next chapter are lined up and ready to go, at least :)
> 
> Until that next chapter goes up, you can find me (procrastinating), as always, on LJ/DW, as borealgrove.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My posting estimate was way, way off. Catastrophically so. In my defense... nope. Nevermind. No excuses. Please just (hopefully) enjoy this chapter. I broke this monster chapter up into two parts, so chapter 14 is almost entirely written, if that's any consolation. Sorry for the crazy wait, everyone!

Several owls swooped through the Great Hall that evening—an unusually large number, considering the relatively small population of students (disproportionately Slytherin) that had stayed behind for the holidays. The Hufflepuff table was almost entirely empty, save a tightly-huddled group of three students sitting at the end closest to the head table. The Ravenclaw table was nearly as bare, the remaining students mostly older, and keeping to themselves. At the opposite end of the room, three small groups of Gryffindors sat spaced out evenly toward the middle of their table, by far the loudest in the room; they cried out to one another jovially, even though such raised voices were unnecessary to making themselves heard. The students at the Slytherin table may have been three times as numerous as those from the other houses, but they were easily the most subdued. Like the Gryffindors, they sat towards the middle of their table, though they hadn't broken off into groups, just sat and ate, speaking to one another in low tones, or not at all.

Despite the fact that Severus had been expecting a letter, he was still somewhat surprised when one of the owls came to land gracefully in front of him, sticking out its leg in an invitation for him to take the scroll carefully tied there. As soon as he had removed the missive, the owl had taken off again, gliding the short distance between the head table and the Slytherin table in order to land in front of Mr. Travers. The boy had been noticeably wary that morning at breakfast, but a whole day without further incident seemed to have bolstered him; he was smiling at the owl even before its talons had touched the dark table lacquer. Severus watched surreptitiously as the bird fluffed up its plumage with importance and stuck out the leg opposite the one it had for Severus; another scroll had been neatly tied there.

Mr. Travers spoke to the owl, patted the top of its head with gentle affection as it tilted its neck curiously at him. When the boy made to reach for a scrap of rabbit on his plate, ostensibly to give to the owl, Severus returned the greater part of his attention to the tightly-rolled scroll that had only just been delivered to him. He could tell by feel alone that the parchment was of expensive make and that the message was a long one, as the missive had been magically shrunk so as not to overburden the owl. Breaking the seal of the scroll caused it to expand to its original size—a complicated bit of charmwork that had largely fallen out of favour in the last decade for being too ostentatious. Severus supposed that the mistrust that had run rampant during and between the last two wars had played a role in its decline in use as well. Surprise spells were not generally welcome by recipients, especially if one could not be certain of who the sender was.

> Professor Snape,
> 
> We appreciate your concern for our son William, and for taking the time to send us a letter to that effect. These nightmares began well before we sent him to Hogwarts, but they had disappeared almost entirely two weeks before we agreed to let our son start his first year at Hogwarts. We had hoped that a change of scenery might help him. Unfortunately, we now see that this is not the case.
> 
> Please accept our sincere gratitude for giving him a calming draught to help him sleep last night.
> 
> You are no doubt already well aware of who William's uncle is. We did our best to shield our son from him, but especially during the past year, that became impossible. By that point, to reject his 'kindness' or to bar him from our home would have been far more dangerous than letting him in the way we did. We are fortunate in that William was never made to experience any violence or depravity firsthand, but my brother spared no detail in his retellings, and insisted on our son being present for them. It is from these stories that the nightmares seem to stem.
> 
> I would say that we all sleep more easily, now that my brother is once again behind bars, but as he has already escaped twice already, it is difficult not to fear that he might a third time.
> 
> We ultimately decided to encourage William to start Hogwarts on time in the fall due to an onslaught of angry, even threatening messages that we began to receive shortly after the end of the war from some of the families affected by my brother's violence. The Ministry has not been helpful in deterring these. We have been fortunate that the messages have never progressed beyond words, but neither of us felt it prudent to expose William to more danger than absolutely necessary while the grief plays its course.
> 
> Though it has not been an easy decision for my wife and I, we believe the best thing for William is to remain at Hogwarts, as we trust in yours and the Headmistress' ability to protect our son, all the while allowing him a sense of normalcy. We would appreciate it if you kept us appraised of our son's condition whenever possible.
> 
> Please once again accept our sincere gratitude for your handling of this sensitive matter.
> 
> Varric & Gwendolyn Travers

Severus rolled the letter back up and slid it into one of the inner pockets of his robe. Over at the Slytherin table, the Travers family owl, probably waiting to carry back a reply, had settled onto the table in front of his young master, watching intently as Mr. Travers read through a letter that was at least twice the length of the one that Severus had gotten. The boy smiled to himself as his eyes travelled down the page.

\--------

As soon as Severus set foot inside her office, her gaze landed on him, flat and unimpressed.

"Well?" Severus asked after a moment had passed in silence. 

Minerva's fingers were steepled over the spine of her planner where it lay limp on her desk, their rigid posture conveying her disapproval almost as readily as the expression on her face did. Off to the left side of the room, Rolanda was relaxing on a couch, a tartan wool blanket tucked around her legs up to her knees. Though her attention appeared entirely focused on a metal three-dimensional puzzle (one that had almost certainly once been part of Albus' personal collection), Severus wasn't fooled. If the tiny lilt to the corner of her mouth was any indication, she would be hanging on to their every word and thoroughly enjoying any bickering that resulted from their meeting.

The soft ticking of the grandfather clock that loomed behind the headmistress' desk echoed through the tower office.

"Have a seat," Minerva finally told him, breaking apart the steeple formed by her fingers to gesture at one of the two plush leather chairs facing her desk. Severus let the request hang between them for just longer than was polite, and then did as he had been directed. He folded his arms across his chest in order to better broadcast his peevishness.

Rolanda let out a soft snort of amusement from her position on the couch.

"Do try to focus on your puzzle, _dear_ ," Minerva suggested coolly, not once breaking eye contact with Severus.

"Oh, my apologies—it's just, I noticed that this hoop I was trying to move over one of the spheres is... well, clearly I was approaching this step of the puzzle the wrong way," Rolanda explained in a genial tone. "Just having a bit of a chuckle at my own expense. Ignore me."

Minerva's gaze flicked over with annoyance to where Rolanda sat on the couch, and then her posture lost some of its stiffness. She cast her gaze heavenward and then directed her annoyed expression at Severus instead.

"I'm putting my foot down, Severus."

"I see."

His clipped reply only served to deepen the frown lines on her face.

As intended.

"You are no longer to leave the Great Hall in the evening until all of your Slytherins have left for their common room. No more slipping out of the side door early. They are your responsibility."

It was difficult to make a strong counter-argument for that particular remark, so Severus settled for returning the insincere smile she had sent him only moments earlier. Minerva didn't appear to appreciate the tributary gesture, but Rolanda had sunk lower into the couch and had begun to bite the side of her lip, presumably to keep an inappropriate laugh in check.

"I would also ask that you make more of an appearance at breakfasts, and make something of an effort to attend lunches as well—though I am aware that expecting you to eat lunch is toeing the line of the impossible. Push food around on your plate if you must."

Severus reigned in a testy retort—it wouldn't do to give her the satisfaction.

"I would also ask that you interact with them after meals to soften the blow of not being able to spend the holidays with their families," she went on, and hearing the absurd request aloud was almost worthwhile just to see how much Rolanda was struggling not snigger audibly.

"Ah, yes," he finally commented, lacing his tone with as much sarcasm as he could muster, "a _kind word_ from me is sure to brighten their evenings. Why, a _smile_ from their greasy Potions Master might even bring their parents back from the dead."

"I'm glad you find their emotional wellbeing so contemptible a subject. Perhaps if you spent less time being bitter and more time caring for your students, I wouldn't need to guide you towards appropriate behaviour. The majority of them have been traumatized in some way by the events of the past several years, and being overlooked or outright neglected by someone meant to be their guardian away from home will only exacerbate the issue. They need reassurance and attention, Severus."

Severus lost his temper.

"Don't tell me how to handle _my_ —"

She held up a single crooked finger, sharpened her silent reproach with a glare.

"I wasn't finished." She paused for effect, sending him a supremely insincere smile, and out of the corner of his eye, Severus watched Rolanda try to suppress a snort of mirth. "This is my school, Severus," she reminded him, an edge to her tone, "and I'll tell you anything I damn well please if I believe it might be in the best interests of the students who are ultimately under _my_ care."

He watched her, saying nothing, silently fuming over his apparent inability to resist her earlier barb; there was anger that served to intimidate or assert, and then there was anger that served only to expose one's own pressure points. Severus knew when he'd been backed into a corner, and fighting his way out of the one he currently found himself in would take far more energy than it was worth. Best to let Minerva enjoy having the upper hand ('let' being the operative word) and wait for a better opportunity to strike back at a later time. To that end, Severus planned to set aside an hour or two before the new term began to revisit some of his Occlumency techniques and put any errant emotions in order. It was true, too, that he had hardly tended to the conceptual forest he had created to house his mind and memories since the Dark Lord had died. With Albus gone as well, Severus really wasn't aware of anyone who had the Legilimency skill necessary to locate the edge of the forest proper, nevermind finding their way into it unscathed.

He thought back to the lessons in Occlumency he had given Potter with considerable annoyance, to the opening he had unintentionally handed to Potter in underestimating him.

On second thought, he'd set aside an entire evening to put his mind in order; there were few things worse than being caught off-guard by someone of lesser skill.

Most of the techniques he used to repel unwanted contact (which happened to be all of it) were of his own devising, and didn't feature in any of the literature he had read. Widespread techniques included peppering the intruder with dozens of mundane memories to cause them to feel overwhelmed or confused, imagining walls and traps to discourage or impede progress entirely, and other, worse methods so ineffective they were laughable. Severus didn't bother with any of those things.

Instead, Severus used his own sense memories and emotions as weapons. He had more than enough horrific ones to let loose on any poor sod that attempted to violate his privacy. For instance, years prior, he had vividly recalled his earliest experiences of being subjected to bouts of the Cruciatus curse, had tortured himself over and over with the sense memories until he could push them on another at the drop of a hat. No longer impersonal recollections that could be viewed as a third party, one of those memories alone was usually enough to send someone recoiling, screaming, even, for the split-second they believed the sensations were real. If he expected that they would recuperate and try again, he would clamp down on their consciousness, hold it inside his own until the entire slew of memories played out, and only then let them retreat. It was incredibly effective. On lesser minds, he would use sense memories of shame, self-hatred, or debilitating fear instead.

The only downside was that he was subjected to the memories at the same time as the intruders were.

Of course, his approach to the Dark Lord's intrusions had been much different. The forest had served as a way to obfuscate memories, but still make it seem as though the Dark Lord had held all the control in rifling through Severus' mind, cutting through forest paths, seemingly unimpeded. It was focus rather than shock that Severus had used in these encounters, an ironclad control of the flow of his thoughts and memories so that they played out only as far as he wished before the next bled into his subconscious seamlessly, keeping sensitive information hidden. It had been like creating a new potion without a recipe on the first try, being forced to ingest it and praying to fucking Merlin that he hadn't slipped up and turned it to poison.

How he missed gambling with own his life and winning.

"...I would _suggest_ that you interact with the students more, especially for Christmas dinner, and play a greater role in supervising them—not ridiculing or intimidating them—during these holidays. Beyond, even—I wouldn't turn down a miracle, were it to happen." Minerva gave him an unimpressed look. "Do try to dig some Christmas spirit out of your arse, Severus."

"For the sake of the children," Rolanda chimed in from the couch, with a slow smile that suggested mockery.

Both he and Minerva sent her a glare.

Useless. She was immune.

\--------

Severus lay his quill down on his desk, its nib centered in a nebulous black spot that had borne the brunt of accidental ink runoff for—oh, somewhere far north of a decade or two. He banished the vial he had been holding back to its stand in the cabinet.

After a moment of consideration, he pulled his pile of notes forward and went back to organizing them thematically, chronologically, the way he had been for the better part of the morning. Before he'd gone over to the cabinet, picked up his quill in distraction.

The false light from the enchanted window scattered over the backs of his hands, shifted over his notes with the lull of the equally-false water. He let out a huff of irritation and pushed the notes back off to the side.

Picked up his quill.

A flourish from his free hand summoned a pre-cut length of parchment suitable for writing terse missives from a shelf just above his collection of pickled intestines. He had felt the placement particularly inspired, at the time.

Still did, come to think of it.

He inhaled sharply and began to write, the tip of his quill moving in loops and scratches across the paper, hardly stopping until he began his fourth line. He stared down at the tips of his fingers, then read back over what he had written, and let out a grumble of displeasure. He swept the piece of parchment clean off of his desk in a bit of a temper, and turned his attention back to the pile of notes waiting for him. His hand was partway to the pile when he stopped, balled it into a fist, and summoned another piece of pre-cut parchment with a grimace.

"Not even here, and still managing to interrupt my work..." he muttered to himself through crooked teeth, nose rumpling with contempt.

The words flowed much more slowly from the quill this time, and he huffed with annoyance at every other line. At length, he signed his initials, and summoned the tiny glass vial that he had previously banished, rolling it neatly within the parchment and casting a temporary sticking charm so that it would retain its shape. He placed the roll onto the desk and looked over at his stack of notes.

Grumbled something unintelligible.

Snatched the tiny roll of parchment off of the desk.

Stormed out of his office, robes whipping out behind him as he cleared the door.

His office was quiet for a minute, two, and then the heavy door swung inwards again with a bang to admit its irritated owner. Heaving a world-weary sigh, Severus summoned the ruined letter he had brushed to the floor earlier and transfigured it into a ribbon, then yanked at thin air, causing his personal seal to sail hastily into his hand.

Severus sent the empty room a look of disgust, as if it had been uniquely responsible for his forgetfulness, and then slunk back out of the office, the door locking with a meek click as he turned a corner and disappeared out of sight.

\--------

"...I've finally managed to convince him, yes—though it's taken me bloody well half a year to do it. Merlin knows I could use the help."

"So he'll be joining us in the new year?" Filius asked with no small amount of anticipation, leaning across the table to have a not-so-private exchange with Pomona.

"That's what he wrote in his letter," she explained, shrugging, as several students listened in to the conversation with interest (the younger ones were less skilled at masking their wide-eyed eavesdropping). "Short of getting trampled by a pack of Hippogriffs on the journey over to the castle, I can't imagine anything causing him to go back on his word."

Filius chortled at that, his chest bobbing against the edge of the table with each mirth-filled intake of breath. "Now there's an image."

Pomona winked and raised her goblet to him before taking a sip.

"You know," Rolanda cut in all of a sudden, joining the conversation, "someone else has accepted as well—just last night."

"Who?"

A wide, self-assured smile spread itself over the flying instructor's features. "Privileged information."

"Oh, _boll_ —"

"—derdash!" Filius interrupted Pomona's expletive hastily, eyeing the students sharing their table and letting out a nervous titter.

The smile on Rolanda's face somehow managed to widen.

"Give the students some credit, Filius," Pomona admonished him with considerable amusement. "They bandy about all sorts of colourful language in the halls."

"Yes, _they_ do," he agreed with an incredulous chuckle. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't still set a good example."

Pomona threw up her hands in a lazy surrender, though given the lopsided smile she wore, it was clear to Severus at least that Filius hadn't quite managed to sway her with his counter-argument.

The sound of wing beats overhead heralded the arrival of the evening post. Minerva's insistence on switching to a single table for staff and students to share just after her 'conversation' with him in her office made the contingent of owls look far greater than it probably was, as they all converged in the same place to deliver their missives. Severus didn't let any of his interest or anticipation show when a small barn owl landed beside him and presented him with a tightly-bound scroll. As soon as he took it, the owl launched itself back into the air and headed for the hidden upper window of the hall that would lead directly outside. A hired owl, then. Personal owls were far more obnoxious and needy.

Severus debated whether or not he should wait until he was able to go back to his chambers to read the letter, but given that none of his colleagues appeared to have taken any notice of him, he figured it relatively safe to untie the ribbon on the scroll and give its contents a quick scan.

> Snape,
> 
> I continue to interpret your well-wishes as insincere (ill-advised, at the very least), and so have chosen not to pass them along; it seems better for all involved. And I actually quite enjoy Christmas carols, thoughtful as the potion was. I'm sending you some plain, Muggle earplugs in return. I'm hoping they may prevent future headaches, thus eliminating the need for restorative potions.
> 
> Happy Holidays,  
>  Hermione Granger

Sure enough, there they were: two foam pellets in bright orange, packed snugly into an offensive plastic tube. He gave them the driest look he was capable of and stuffed them, along with the letter, into a pocket of his robe before anyone could notice them and comment.

\--------

"Where's Hermione gone to?" Ron fell back into the fireside armchair with a huff, the firewhiskey in the glass he held sloshing but not spilling over. He hid his self-satisfied smirk behind a well-timed sip of his drink.

"Not sure—though she was trying to convince Mum to let her help clean up... She does love a challenge, our Hermione. Might be in the loo now. Anyway, Harry—can we talk?"

"Sure." Harry answered, taking the last sip of his own glass of firewhiskey and staring through to the other room with a small smile, where Charlie, Mr. Weasley, and George were still sitting at the half-cleared dinner table, chatting away.

" _Alone_."

Harry's eyes flicked to the inside of his glass. "Oh—erm, right. Yeah."

He heard Ginny let out a small, resigned sigh. "How about out on the back porch?"

He nodded in assent, and set his empty glass down on the coffee table (it took him a moment to find a spot) which was piled with an assortment of delicious-looking biscuits and baked goods that Mrs. Weasley had been making and amassing over the course of the month.

"Suppose I'll just sit here like a sack of dragon dung and wait for Hermione to come back and keep me company, then, shall I?" Ron remarked wryly.

"Nothing gets past you, does it?"

Ron tapped his temple with a mocking smile and went back to his drink, pointedly ignoring his sister as she passed. It was just dramatic enough to cause Harry to crack a smile, and he gave Ron a light, affectionate shove as he followed Ginny out into the hall. She didn't so much as summon a scarf on her way out towards the garden.

"Hang on—shouldn't we grab our coats?"

"No need," Ginny told him with a glance over her shoulder. "Mum and Charlie cast a warming lattice on the back porch earlier so it should hold for several more hours, at least."

"A _lattice_? How's your mum still awake?" Harry asked with a bark of unintended laughter.

"Like I said, Charlie helped with the incantation," Ginny reminded him with some exasperation. "And, anyway... Mum's just got a knack for those sorts of spells." She looked back at him again as she opened the door to the porch which lead out to the garden. "You know, ones that are cast on behalf of others. It's kind of awful, in a way, that even her magic is always trying to put others first, but... that's Mum for you."

"Impressive, either way."

Ginny nodded absentmindedly and stepped out onto the old woven welcome mat that sat squarely on the raised step in front of the door. It was near-impossible to tell what colour it had once been: years of children's feet trampling dirt into it as they flew in and out the door had given the fabric it was made of a warm yellow tinge. It would have been brown, Harry figured, but the sun must have done its level best over the years to bleach the deep developing stain into something lighter. When Harry stepped down onto the mat, it was so flat, so smooth, that he could barely feel the interwoven knots that made it up through his socked feet.

Tucked up against the siding of the house, in a dinged metal tray, three pairs of wellies were sitting in a neat row, as spotless as the metal tray was grimy. A wooden stool, just as bleached by the sun as the mat, had been placed next to the metal tray, and Harry supposed its original purpose had been to make putting on shoes easier.

A potted plant had occupied the seat for as long as Harry had been coming to The Burrow, however. 

"It seems like a lot of trouble to go to, to cast a lattice just for a family dinner," Harry found himself remarking suddenly, letting the door to the house swing gently shut behind him.

Ginny shrugged, going over to the railing overlooking the garden and leaning against it, staring out at the snow-covered landscape. "Bill and Fleur should be arriving soon—they're coming from her parents' dinner, Percy will be coming for the night once he submits a report he's been working on, and Mum said the Lovegoods were just finishing—well, whatever it was they were doing. Something about telepathy. A spectacle that ran late? No idea," she admitted with a wry lilt to her tone. "Mum's no doubt kept plates warming for them both. I'm sure others will drop by as the night goes on. I think Andromeda still plans to make an appearance, too, though it seems she and Teddy were invited to have dinner with the Malfoys last-minute. I can't imagine why she would accept, but she did."

"The Malfoys?" Harry echoed, taken aback.

"Yes, Harry. The Malfoys. Who she and Teddy are related to."

"I know they're related..." Harry muttered with some annoyance. If Ginny had heard the comment, she chose to ignore it.

"Well, I suppose there will be some ulterior motive on Narcissa's part, but Andromeda at least must simply be trying to mend bridges. Maybe Teddy will get a nice present or two out of the ordeal..." Ginny snorted softly to herself, then went quiet, contemplating something in the garden that wasn't evident to Harry.

Warm, orange tinged light spilled out from the windows of The Burrow, and stretched itself thin on the snow below, unable to make much headway into the dark.

Harry clasped his hands behind his back, and then unclasped them, letting them fall to his sides, uncertain of what to do with himself.

"Thank you for the cold-weather Quidditch gloves, Harry." Ginny's normally-assured voice was diluted now somehow, dispersing into the open air almost as quickly as she could speak. "They're beautifully made. The initials were a nice touch."

"They should keep the cold out better than the ones you have now," Harry replied, wanting to kick himself. "I'm glad you liked them."

"Harry?"

The warmth from the lattice seeped into his socks through the wooden boards that made up the porch.

"Harry."

"Yeah?" His voice didn't come out quite right.

"Do you know what would have made me even happier?"

He waited for her.

Though maybe—she was waiting for him.

Ginny turned around to lean her back against the railing instead and Harry couldn't get himself to look into her eyes, into her face, to see what lay there.

"Your time," Ginny said, and Harry watched her hands gesture feebly with the words, the motion likely more telling than the expression on her face would have been. Had he been able to look. "That's all, Harry. Just that." She let the words lie between them, let them sink in.

"Ginny, I—"

"Why won't you look at me?" Ginny cut him off, the question asked in so gentle a tone that Harry would have preferred to have been snapped at.

"Ginny..."

"You don't have to answer that, alright?" She sighed, as if she were on the verge of deflating entirely. "Look, I know... why."

Harry made himself look up, only to catch her staring off to the side, jaw slightly stiff with dignity. He hastily returned his gaze to the floorboards.

"I kept trying to convince myself that it was Riddle keeping us apart, that after the war we wouldn't need to be separated anymore. And when he was destroyed, and summer came, that was sort of true. We were together. But then I returned to Hogwarts, and I understood something that I really didn't want to." He heard her sniff, and then go quiet as if gathering her thoughts. "It's simple. We vacation with one another, and then go back to our own separate lives." 

"Do we?" His voice was weak, the question an empty shell.

"Oh _Merlin_ ," Ginny scoffed, laughing humourlessly to herself. "You know we do." She let out a shaky breath. "You know that."

Harry did.

"I thought—" She paused again, and he didn't have to try hard to imagine her jaw trembling, the corners of her lips turning down before she stubbornly righted them. "Somehow, I had this wild fancy that after Riddle was finally dead, I could become if not the most important person in your life, then at least someone in your _inner circle_." The last two words she infused with as much sarcasm as she could muster, frustration warping her tone further, into bitterness. "I don't think you even consider me a friend, to be honest with you, because if you did, I'd probably be getting visits or _actual_ letters—conversation—like Hermione has been." She paused, but then breathed in sharply, as if to cut off a retort from him.

Not that he had the faintest idea of how to defend himself.

"And don't mistake me, Harry, this isn't jealously, this is not—" Ginny let out a huff of anger. "This is my wanting to occupy even the _tiniest_ amount of space in your life, in your daily thoughts. I trust you, and I have always trusted you, but I don't think you've ever trusted me, not in the same way, not—"

"That's—"

"True," she snapped. "It's true."She took in an audible breath, and when she spoke again, her tone had lost its bite. "During that last year, you told me nothing important. You just took off. But the thing is, Harry, I would have come with you if you'd let me, and if I need to take it this far, I will: I would not have left you. I would not have run away like Ron."

"I just wanted you to be safe, and... look, I know what Ron did was shit, but you don't fully understand what it was like for him—for any of us—to wear that locket. He wasn't—"

" _I_ don't understand?" Ginny cut in, an incredulous lilt to her tone. " _Me_? You do remember that I carried around a piece of Riddle's fucking soul for a year and spoke to it regularly, right? But of course, I can't fully appreciate the nuance of wearing one around my neck." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "I also can't appreciate the difference it would have made to have been able to share the burden with others, because I was completely alone. So I suppose you're right, I just _don't fully understand_ what it must have been like to face that kind of evil as a team. Circe, you really set me straight, didn't you?"

"Really, I just wanted—"

"No, I know what you _wanted_ , Harry, and that's been the problem," Ginny interrupted him, forceful in her frustration, her hurt. "That's _always_ been the problem—you make these unilateral decisions, frame them as being in my best interest. But they're not. What's in my best interest is you viewing me as an equal, someone you feel you can have a discussion with, entrust your life to, instead of someone who you feel you have to constantly watch out for. I don't think I ever moved on from being Ginny, The Little Sister in your mind."

The lump in Harry's throat burned as it grew, making it difficult to breathe.

"And I'm not alright with that." Ginny's voice came out thick, the hurt finally overtaking her anger. "I'm not at all okay with being in a relationship with someone who thinks of me in that way. I deserve to be seen as my own person, and not just someone in relation to your best friend."

Harry stared at his feet, too ashamed to make any attempt at defending himself, knowing all the while that his silence was incriminating.

"Please... look at me."

Her voice drifted over to him, soft and vulnerable, carrying a pain in it that he'd heard in it before, but had never been responsible for causing. So he looked.

Ginny's lips were in a thin, wavering line, her eyes bright.

"I'm really sorry, Gin," he sniffed in a shaky voice, the guilt and the regret pooling in the corners of his eyes until it all spilled over, finally broke, rolling down his cheeks.

"I know you are," she replied in a whisper, holding back a sob. "I know."

Ginny shook her head and squeezed her eyes tightly shut when her own tears finally began to fall, turned her face away from him. She brought a hand up to her mouth to try and contain the heartbreak pouring out of her, but Harry felt each muffled sob break over him in a crash, stared at her the way a deer might stare at headlights. At length, Ginny opened her eyes again, gasped out an apology.

He wanted to say, _you have nothing to be sorry for_.

He let her leave without a single word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're disappointed at the lack of interaction between our two favourite grumps in this chapter, not to worry... the next focuses entirely on them, and it is going to be excellent. Hopefully. You'll have to be the judge of that when my sorry hide finally posts it.
> 
> Until next time, friends!  
> (SOON.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out far, far longer than I had originally planned which is what caused yet another long wait. Nevertheless, it is with nervous anticipation that I present to you... this... chapter. Okay, that was a little less exciting a line than I was going for, but you get the idea. Go ahead, scroll onward.
> 
> ...But before you do, here is a slapdash summary of what came before, as I've received comments from a few of you over the last two chapters mentioning you've forgotten what the story was about -- I assume there are others who simply haven't said anything. I'll try to write up a short summary of the previous chapter with each update going forward.
> 
> _Hermione is the only one of her class to return to Hogwarts in order to complete her schooling after the war, but nothing feels the way it is supposed to feel. It is difficult to care much about marks when the world at large seems to have collectively decided to forget the war ever happened. What exactly is the use of doing anything if society just falls back into its usual patterns, ignores lessons it should have learned?_
> 
> _There is another person at Hogwarts who appears to feel as disenchanted as she does, who does not seem to view the war as being an event, but rather as a process that continues on long after the grand battles have ended. Professor Snape._
> 
> _Hermione tempts him into a game of cat and mouse, wanting to be noticed, intent on avoiding her feelings in the simplest possible manner she can think of: with sex. Severus, however, is categorically unable to resist a puzzle, and Hermione's conduct since returning to Hogwarts is exactly that. The sex is merely an unexpected perk. As is the discovery that Hermione also seems to enjoy laughably implausible academic texts just as much as he does. She's still a nuisance. But somewhat more tolerable than the other denizens of the castle, if he were forced to spend time in another's company._
> 
> _Severus is both unpleasant and perceptive, a combination of traits that enables him to constantly push Hermione's buttons, provoke her into outbursts of emotion. Hermione confesses that she feels traumatized by what she did to her parents, by the entirely practical, self-serving reasoning that went into saving Severus' life._
> 
> _Snape is a miserable, crabby old bastard, and he likes it that way._
> 
> _Probably._

If one were to ask Severus whether he wanted a slice of Christmas cake, his answer would have been a truly caustic _no_.

But no one had asked.

Instead, his moderately tipsy colleague—a herbologist of otherwise good repute—had gone about summoning everyone within arm's reach a piece of the revolting dessert before anyone could get a word in. Magic and inebriation really weren't a good mix. Severus had made to reach for his own wand to banish the offending slice he had been given back to its serving tray, but a warning glare from Minerva had stopped him cold; he hadn’t been in any mood to listen to another one of her tirades. 

In an astonishingly rotten turn of luck the evening before, she had noticed his ear plugs during a 'beautiful' rendition of _Carol of the Bells_ and had given him hell over his inattention after all the students had left for their common rooms later that night. No matter how amusing the reason for it was, a lecture from Minerva was never a pleasant experience, even less so when all of one’s colleagues stayed to watch. Of course, everyone but the headmistress had found his soundproofing stunt (as she had called it) hilarious, which had further incensed her and caused her to make several rather unprofessional statements at his expense. All of which she had grudgingly apologized for the following morning at breakfast, everyone else either studiously minding their own business or shooting him looks of amused solidarity. 

He had thought to pass the hell on to Granger, to pay it forward, as it were, but all too easily he had imagined her dissolving into laughter at the recounting of the events and thought better of it.

He was simply counting down the seconds, now, until the last few students finally left the table. Unfortunately, a contingent of first and second years were gathered around Pomona and didn't look the least bit tired; she had roped them (and some of the staff) into an impromptu Gobstones tournament. Rolanda elbowed him in the side, and he turned his head slightly to give her his undivided but largely-uninterested attention.

"Not going to eat any of your cake, Severus?" she asked, mocking him without sounding as though she were; the corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement.

He waited for her to continue.

"Where's your Christmas spirit?"

"Guess."

"Somewhere the sun is incapable of reaching, I wager."

He almost lost control of the corner of his mouth.

"Well. Maybe this will help coax it out," she said without losing her stride, fishing a small box out of the sleeve pocket of her robe. "A little fibre now and then does wonders."

He scrunched his nose up in distaste before he could think to stop, and she let out a bark of laughter.

"I jest. Where's a camera when you need one?" She smirked to herself and set the box onto the table, tapped it with her wand to restore it to its original size."Merry Christmas." Without further fanfare, she slid the tall, oblong box sideways until it obscured his view of the revolting slice of cake. That was a gift in and of itself. When he made no move to remove the cover and peer inside, Rolanda reached over to push it closer to the edge of the table, centimetres away from the tip of his nose. Insolent.

At least she hadn't wrapped the bloody thing.

The box was a plain, unadorned forest green, the cover snug but sliding off easily enough when he gave it a pull. Inside was a bottle with a very familiar wax seal over the cork.

"No frivolous wines this year?" Severus asked with a raised eyebrow, pulling the bottle out partway so that he could read its label.

"I've decided I'm fond of you again, Snape."

"I see."

"I figured I'd start you off with a firewhiskey—middling quality."

"So generous."

A smug smile insinuated itself onto Rolanda's features. "You'll get an upgrade in a year if you behave yourself."

"Oh... goody," Severus deadpanned under his breath.

Rolanda tried to hide her snort of laughter, but it slipped out before she could slide the palm of her hand over her mouth. Severus had much better success at quashing his smirk. Then, feeling as though he must have been hoodwinked somehowwhen he hadn't been paying attention, Severus pulled a wrapped gift out of his own pocket and set it beside Rolanda on the table.

"Here," he said in a bored tone. "Try not to get too pissed all in one go."

"Severus Snape," Rolanda simpered, clutching her chest in far too dramatic a manner (she drew gazes both amused and exasperated from others at the table—Minerva appeared unable to decide between the two emotions and settled for rolling her eyes instead). "I'm touched."

Severus maintained a dry expression while she tore into the brown-paper package.

"Oh, sherry!" she commented with no small delight, before her tone turned sly. "You _are_ trying to get back in her good graces, aren't you?"

"Who you choose to drink the bottle with is none of my concern."

"The hell it isn't," Rolanda snorted, elbowing him in the arm with considerable amusement.

\--------

Hermione clutched at her abdomen and settled onto the toilet seat with a grimace.

She placed her other hand over her mouth, drawing shaky breaths in through her nose.

Swallowed thickly.

With a start, she forced herself up into a standing position, letting her skirt fall back down past her knees, knickers still pushed into her hastily-lowered tights. The fabric had barely settled before she whipped around and dropped in front of the pristine toilet bowl, one hand curling around the edge of the wooden seat, the other still clutching at her abdomen. She stared down into the calm water, swallowed again, lips trembling with the effort to keep her mouth closed, her throat from contracting.

But her lips were easily forced apart by a gasp, a sickening lurch of her stomach that she couldn't stop. Her eyes watered as her stomach contracted again, but nothing was forthcoming—the nausea sat lower, in her abdomen, unable to settle.

Christmas the year before had not been like this. It hadn't been festive or even moderately cheerful. There hadn't been time to sit and enjoy a proper, home-cooked meal, or to laugh with... family. Hermione couldn't put her parents out of her mind—their memory had been forced down the year before by hunger, terror, desperation, the overwhelming need to just soldier on and solider on and soldier on until they knew what in the hell it was that Albus Dumbledore had truly meant for them to do. There had been no room to think about her parents, not really, not when they were as safe as they could be.

But now.

They closed in on her, them and all the love they had sheltered her with.

The memories were a stone, gathering mass the further it travelled through her system, until it pinned her to the floor.

Then it vanished suddenly, threw her completely off-balance, made her feel as though her body was a coiled spring.

Hermione pushed herself up to her feet again, frantic with the need for the anguish to pass, tears already rolling along the length of her nose, down her cheeks.

She tried to keep quiet.

Couldn't figure out what to do with her hands—so they flapped through the air on their own, fanning her face as if to dry it, as if to force her quickening breaths in and out back into an acceptable rhythm.

She lurched towards the sink taps, turning the cold water on as far as she could manage before she had to slap both hands over her mouth again to muffle the wail that she wanted so desperately to let out. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of their faces, each one, and how details were already slipping from her memory—thought of Crookshanks too, who had taken more care of her than she ever had of him. Who she had always meant to come back home to.

In a minute, someone would likely come knock on the door and she wouldn't know how to answer. 

Hermione grit her teeth—she had to stop.

Swaying in place, she took hold of her frustration at herself and snatched her hands away from her mouth so that she could pull up her knickers and re-adjust her tights. Her breaths still came too quickly and were uneven, but she twisted her mouth into a grimace and forced her breathing to deepen, to slow, raising herself onto her tip-toes with the intensity of each inhalation.

She couldn't stop the shaking, though.

\--------

When the clock struck ten, Minerva called for the gradual end of the festivities, disappointing all of the children who had stayed behind to compete in or watch the Gobstones tournament unfold—mostly students from Severus' own house. Several of his colleagues had attempted to coax him into joining the game, but not even the threat of another stern talking-to from Minerva had been enough to get him to pick up one of Pomona's glorified marbles. He may have inherited his mother's nose, but the Prince legacy of interest—never mind skill—in Gobstones had died with her.

Severus didn't even wait for the last two students to leave the hall; he got up as they did, followed them out like a sullen shadow, into the antechamber that bridged the Great Hall and the staircases, not bothering to bid any of his colleagues goodnight. They'd leeched enough of his time for one evening. He let the first years scurry ahead of him and then slipped through a well-hidden shortcut that branched off of the antechamber, down a pin-straight spiral staircase made of iron that never seemed to rust. By the time he got to the bottom of it, he could hear the distant voices of the two Slytherin students echoing woodenly from the main entrance to the dungeons.

They would learn.

Severus let his feet carry him to his office, waving away the wards and shutting the door behind himself before the students rounded the corner on the way to their common room. He heard their murmuring voices as they passed, the low tone of a shared chuckle; then it was quiet.

The fire was smouldering in the grate when Severus entered his sitting room, the globes of light he had affixed around the room winking into life as soon as his boots touched the wooden floorboards. He levitated an extra log of wood onto the fire and then rid himself of his heavy winter teaching robe, tossing it, as he always did, onto the pile in the chair beside the door. His boots he stepped out of as well, almost regretting the decision when his socked feet touched the chilly floor. He didn't bother with a warming charm, though; they'd soon be facing the fire.

As the flames caught on the fresh log in the fireplace, Severus began to look through the stack of periodicals he had yet to read (he had fallen behind in the last month with all the extra exam-related work that had been placed in his lap). In the mood for something cerebral, he picked up the latest issue of _Elements_ , a forward-thinking potions publication, and tossed it gently onto the seat of his chair as he passed it on his way to the drink cabinet.

As soon as he made to grab the neck of his open bottle of Ogden's, Severus felt a telltale crackle of energy come from the plain silver ring he wore on his middle finger, signifying that the wards placed over the entrance to the supplementary lab had been crossed. A student would have gone to his office—most were not aware of the existence of the supplementary lab. A colleague would have attempted to floo-call him and been summarily ignored; if the matter were truly urgent, they would then have made the trip to his office to speak with him. Since his ring had crackled with energy rather than burned, Severus could be certain that whoever the intruder was, they hadn't tried his office at all, had just gone straight to the lab.

It figured that someone would choose to disturb him right as his night had taken a turn for the slightly more bearable. Severus let his hand fall to his side with a frown at the drink cabinet that would have curdled milk had it been within his line of sight. He took out his wand and with two rapid movements had directed his boots to sail across the room and land in front of the door that led to the lab, the stores, and out into the dungeons proper... Though he'd concealed that last door from the outside and warded it with interlaced jinxes to ensure that no one could get through unless they wanted to put some effort into disturbing him. Provided they could even locate the door in the first place.

The only way to enter his personal chambers was through the laboratory or his office, provided one managed to disable all of the wards sealing all of the doors between the dungeons and his chambers. As headmistress, Minerva was able to floo directly into his sitting room via the fireplace in her office, as it was securely linked to all major hearths in the castle, but that was to be used strictly in the most dire of emergencies, and there had never yet been cause during her tenure. Albus had invoked that licence exactly once, but Severus tried not to think about that afternoon—disastrous, in just about every sense of the word. Albus had enjoyed reminding Severus of the incident regularly up until his death, never seeming to recall the tragedy that had prompted the intrusion, only the apparent 'hilarity' that had followed. Severus had fashioned himself an opaque grate after that.

Come to think of it, there was one other way to access his chambers: personal invitation.

But that hardly ever happened, so it almost didn't warrant inclusion in the list.

Severus slid his feet into his boots, secured his wand back into its holster under his robes, and opened the lab-hall door, the wards allowing him unimpeded passage on the way out. When the door swung securely shut behind him, the rough stone hallway turned pitch-dark; there were wall sconces made to house conjured flames, but Severus didn't bother calling any forth, simply made his way by memory to the other side. He heard a clang, and some clinking when he was close enough to grab the laboratory door handle, and paused to listen further. There was a heavy _thunk_ preceding another clanging noise, and then nothing. Giving the intruder another half-minute to relax and let down their guard, Severus then opened the door and slunk into the room.

Of course.

It _would_ have to be Granger, wouldn't it?

Severus resisted giving into the urge to heave an exasperated sigh at her inexplicable desire to celebrate Christmas day by brewing a potion... without ingredients. Both the student store room and the school store room were securely locked and heavily warded, so Granger had merely laid out equipment on her worktable: a cauldron, two different types of stirring rod, an assortment of knives, and one of the larger sets of mortar and pestle that had been stored along the wall. Her curls sprang out from the crown of her head in all directions, effectively covering her face as she peered downwards into the copper cauldron she had set on the worktable.

Her normally-flushed knuckles had turned nearly bloodless where they gripped the edge of the table.

She was shaking.

"Granger."

It was clear that she hadn't noticed him enter, because hearing her own name burst into the space between them startled her badly, and she jumped back from the cauldron as if stung. It was then that he got a look at her face, the grimace that she wore under a shiny layer of tears. As soon as she caught his eyes, she let out a sob and lunged back to the table, straightening the stirring rods with shaking fingers, before coveringher face in her hands and bracing her elbows against the edge of the table.

"Granger," he said in the most neutral tone he could manage (which happened to sound mildly indignant), "what in the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm _crying_ , obviously," she snarled, ripping her hands away from her face and balling one of them into a fist. She took in a gulping breath and let out a sob as she slammed her fist against the tabletop. " _Ow_..." She squeezed her eyes shut and cradled her sore hand to her chest, looking so out of sorts as she began to cry in earnest that Severus wondered if she even knew where she was.

He watched her for one very long, very uncomfortable minute.

Then she gulped in some air, raised her head, and asked, "Aren’t you going to let me borrow some ingredients?" Despite how anguished she still appeared, her tone was downright pushy.

Severus studied her with a level gaze, folding his arms deliberately over his chest. "Why are you here?"

"Can I have the ingredients or not?" She snapped, slamming her open palm on the slab of a tabletop while her lips and nose shook with the effort of holding in another sob. It took only two intakes of breath before her resolve crumbled and she burst back into tears, still fixing him with an accusatory stare.

"You may," Severus said after a disapproving pause. "Provided you answer my question."

"I don't know, alright?" She sobbed, "I don't actually know."

"Did something happen?" He found himself asking somewhat grudgingly, before he could think better of it.

"Not... really?" Her eyebrows creased with uncertainty, and she shook her head, frustrated, presumably at herself. Granger's expression turned sour and she bent to cradle her head in her hands again. "It was just... everyone. There and... not there. Dinner. Chatting." She sniffed loudly, her voice thick, even a little hoarse. "It was too calm, and too quiet. I just kept thinking of..." she shook her head again, leaving her thought unvoiced. "I know everyone else is in pain too—I just couldn't let myself—" She rubbed at her face with the palms of her hands and then pulled them away from her eyes so that she could look back up at him, cheeks glistening and reddened. "I needed to be alone."

"Then I suppose the dungeons were an inspired choice."

"I can't honestly say I was thinking very clearly when I Apparated outside the gates." She managed a humourless laugh through her dwindling tears.

"No, indeed," Severus agreed in a bored drawl. "This castle really is a hateful place to spend one's Christmas. If you've come to escape from peaceful cheer, it is my duty to inform you that you have made a grave error in judgement. It is inescapable."

He watched her try to suppress a smile.

"The Infirmary is in need of Pepperup before all of the students return," he told her after it was clear she wasn't planning on saying anything. "I will retrieve the ingredients for you. Everything must be tidied, cleaned, and returned to its original position once you have finished brewing for the evening. I will bottle the potion in the morning." Then, just because he knew it would irk her, he added, "Provided it is brewed to standard."

"To _standard_?" She exclaimed immediately, glaring at him. "That is just—" She let out a long breath through her nose, shook her head, and swallowed her outrage. Though it appeared to be a bitter mouthful. He regarded Granger as she straightened the stirring rods again, where they had been knocked askew by her elbow. "Look... I didn't really mean _alone_ -alone. Just... not with them."

"I understand perfectly," he assured her in a sarcastic drawl.

"Just—" She sighed, aggravated, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Go back to whatever you were doing. _Merlin_." Granger picked up the pestle, her nose bunched up in resentment, and after a moment let it drop into the mortar, the two granite surfaces striking one another with a clatter.

"School property," he reminded her, glancing pointedly at the piece of equipment he knew very well was made to withstand considerable punishment.

"Who _cares_?" She cried out angrily, looking markedly less threatening when indignant tears began to trickle down her cheeks again. She deflated and lowered her face into her hands, entire body shaking, subconsciously broadcasting her exhaustion. A part of Severus wanted to see what sort of comically awful mistakes she might make if he allowed her the Pepperup ingredients, but—and he blamed the indecently-long Christmas dinner for his reticence—he decided against being petty.

"Granger, come with me."

Minerva had asked him to pull some Christmas spirit out of his arse, after all.

"Stop your blubbering, and follow."

"I'm not blubbering," she snapped, proving herselfa liar with each syllable.

"Of course," he allowed in voice dripping with sarcasm. "My mistake."

"Sod off," Hermione whined, sniffing loudly.

"I will take the suggestion under consideration."

"Oh Merlin," she whined again in exasperation, "sod _off_!"

He very nearly allowed himself a smirk.

It took some time to bring down and replace both wards separating the laboratory from his sitting room, but by the time they were both on the other side of the passage, Granger's sniffing had tentatively stopped, her eyes still rather reddened but mostly dry. Without any prompting, she stepped out of her boots and took out her wand to copy him when he sent his own pair over to the other entryway. Her thick cloak she kept draped over one arm, uncharacteristically silent while she waited for him to direct her further.

"Should I just... take the same chair as last time?"

Well. He supposed five minutes without a word had been something of a record for her.

He nodded.

"Thanks."

She walked past him and over to the chairs in front of the fireplace, tossing her cloak into the one he'd agreed she could use before sitting down on top of it. Severus made a beeline for the drink cabinet, where he'd left the opened bottle of whiskey waiting for him long enough. He hefted it out gently by the neck, and then turned to Granger.

"I assume you'll have the same foul drink you did last time?"

"Calling it elf wine won't kill you."

"It might."

He watched her snort humourlessly. "I would have some, but I drank it all last time, remember?"

Of course he did. It was difficult to forget Granger thudding to the floor on hands and knees, too weak to stand after spilling the contents of her heart into her outstretched hands, splashing it all over his robes. The stains were still there—only an idiot could miss them. 

Severus turned back to the cabinet and plucked an unopened bottle of the cloying spirit from the bottom shelf, then tapped gently on the doors and left them to swing shut on their own. 

"Oh. Did Professor Hooch get you a _thoughtful_ gift again?" Granger immediately asked with some amusement when she noticed the bottle of elf wine he held.

"She certainly did,"he drawled.

Even Veritaserum would not have been roused to action by the statement.

"I wish I could thank her," Granger said with a stiff smile, reaching up to accept the bottle as he handed it to her. Ah. Glasses. That damned dinner really had wreaked havoc on his cognitive ability.

"Don't," he replied, circling back to the cabinet to retrieve what he’d forgotten. "You'd ruin all the progress I've made in dissuading her from her asinine behaviour. Not to mention… it would be as good as telling the headmistress."

"Why?" Hermione asked with amusement, this time accepting a wine glass from him. "Are they friends?"

"Friends… Yes." He supposed it wasn't really his place to say anything more specific if the two of them still wished for their personal lives to be kept quiet. 

"Interesting. I always thought that Professor McGonagall didn't like her very much."

"Things change," Severus murmured, finally pouring whisky into his glass. "And in any case... it is a common affectation of students to level the depth of their professors' lives, turn them into simple figures."

"Is that what you think I've done?"

"Facts simply are—they don't require thought to be brought into being."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Is this how you plan to speak all evening?" He heard her scoff over the pop of a wine cork being pried loose. "I almost miss the monosyllables."

He corked his own bottle of whisky and set it on the floor at his feet, picked up the periodical he had tossed onto the seat of his chair earlier, and then settled into the leather cushions. "Do you?" he finally asked before taking a sip of his whiskey.

Granger sighed, sounding more tired than aggravated.

"I don't even remember what we were talking about," she admitted.

"An unlikely friendship," Severus reminded her.

"Right. Well, I'm not sure I'd want to explain to Professor McGonagall why I've been in your sitting room drinking elf wine so, strange as the chain of cause and effect is, I won't thank Professor Hooch for her kind gift."

"That seems prudent. Especially given the fact that you have thus far been unable to explain your presence here to me."

"I'll let you know when I manage to explain it to myself," she murmured in a soft, self-deprecating tone.

Severus couldn't think of anything to say to that, and given that Granger didn't appear likely to volunteer anything more either, he opened up his periodical and began to read the letter from the editor, a Potions Master that continued to earn her title by consistently publishing new discoveries and being at the forefront of new avenues of research. She also happened to not care for politics—under her direction, the periodical only published credible research, wasn't swayed by the prospect of big names or 'gifts' (he thought with some amusement of Lucius).This made for thoroughly engaging reading, and more than a few of the articles over the years had prompted aha moments of his own, along with several crises of academic faith, when he had encountered ideas that made mincemeat of his own—with fact to back them up.

Contrary to what he was certain was said about him, Severus liked nothing more than for his theories, his ideas to be challenged. He relished lording authority over others, and he had an overwhelming need to be in control, but there was also nothing more boring than being right. Oh, certainly, it brought with it a certain amount of satisfaction at first, but such satisfaction faded quickly. What was the use of knowledge if it remained static, within easy reach? What was the use of having superior intellect if it was never exercised, if it was left to flounder in self-satisfaction and self-assurance?

Severus looked up when something flew in front of the fireplace and creased his eyebrows immediately in disapproval.

"What in the hell are you doing, Granger?"

"I walked all the way from the front gate and it was snowing; my tights are soaked. I thought I would dry them out in front of the fire."

"And I suppose your _wand_ was too waterlogged to be of any use?"

"They're made of synthetic material," she replied with some annoyance. "A drying charm would probably ruin their elasticity." When he raised his eyebrow sceptically, she added, "It's happened before."

Severus rolled his eyes and raised his hand lazily in surrender, returning his attention to the letter he had almost finished reading. He heard her tsk and shift around in her chair. As was his custom, he scanned the table of contents to find the article that boasted the most implausible-sounding claim, and then turned to that one first, shifting in his own chair and crossing one leg loosely over the other. When he had read through one column of the article without hearing so much as a peep from Granger, he gave in to curiosity and peered at her from the corner of his eye.

She was slouching in her chair, cheek pressed into her balled fist as she stared into the fire; the tip of her elbow had disappeared, so heavily had it sunk into the armrest. She sniffed almost inaudibly and raised her glass to her lips to take a small sip. Then she uncurled her fist, slid her fingers over her mouth instead. Closed her eyes until even her cheeks caught the light.

Returning his gaze fully to the page, he said, "I count this easily among the most horrible Christmases I have ever experienced."

"Why?" She didn't bother hiding the misery in her voice.

"Relentless choral performances. Enforced communal meals. Mandated niceties. An impromptu Gobstones tournament that I was nearly badgered into joining." He frowned in distaste, then added, "Christmas cake." He readjusted the periodical on his lap. "Take your pick, Granger. It has been a trying week."

"Niceties?" She asked after a moment, with a watery laugh.

"I would rather not speak of those."

"Oh, of course," she agreed with forced gravity.

He drew out the silence and then volunteered, "Minerva was convinced that a kind word to the students from me would brighten their holidays."

"More like terrify them," Hermione huffed with great amusement.

"They need an authority figure, not a..." Severus wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Friend."

"You _can_ be kind and still hold authority," Hermione pointed out in a know-it-all tone that caused him to close his eyes with irritation.

"Just because something can be done, does not mean that it should be."

"It wouldn't actually hurt for you to be kinder to your students—to anybody, really."

"Oh, but that's where you're tragically wrong, Granger," Severus disagreed with a scowl. "My entire being functions on spite. Were I to begin doling out compliments and well-wishes to the general public, I would quite simply wither and die."

"Alright, Snape," she laughed, dismissing his words with great amusement.

He refrained from taking the bait and returned his attention properly to the second column of the article. He was a third of the way down the page when, once again, something flew by in front of the fire, at the edge of his vision. He looked over at the hearth and then sent Granger a stare.

"I thought I might as well dry those out too, while I'm at it," she explained, drowning a nascent grin in a sip of wine.

"I suppose a drying charm would once again be too abrasive for your delicate clothing."

"I'd rather not take a chance on my knickers."

"Naturally," he agreed in his flattest tone.

"Do you mind if I borrow something to read as well?"

He waved a dismissive hand at her and heard the faint creak of the frame of her chair as she stood to pick through the clutter on the furniture behind them. He read, listening to the rustle of parchment being pushed aside, the murmur of paperback sliding over periodical. The careful _thunk_ of heavy volumes being relocated to the floor. No matter. Anything truly valuable was locked away in chests or behind protective charms in bookcases carved quite literally out of the walls of his bedroom. 

Granger made noises at the back of her throat as she dug deeper, hums of approval, mild interest, a scoff or two, until finally—triumph.

"I'd been meaning to read this one," she explained, returning to her chair. "Professor Vector was saying—"

"I'm certain she was," he cut her off in mild disinterest. "She often is."

"Do you feel threatened by how brilliant she is?"

Severus turned to glare at the occupant of the other chair.

"I feel irritated at her bottomless well of good cheer."

"I think she's lovely," Granger went on, unfazed. "She's easily my favourite professor."

He rolled his eyes and returned their attention to the page he was working on. The author of the article had been doing dedicated research on ointments for years and it showed in his pedantic tone. That wasn't to say the article was dry, but it included perhaps more detail than someone would reasonably need in order to understand that the point he was trying to argue had merit. The detail probably would have served better in the findings section where—it had been repeated. Ah. Well, Severus supposed, some idiot readers did need to have their hands held while they grappled with moderately complex theory. Their brains overfull sieves leaking unprocessed information at all sides...

Granger let out a contented huff of air as she turned the pages of the periodical she had selected, an annual review (from three years before) of the most ground-breaking advances in arithmantic potioneering. Severus raised his eyebrow and continued on through the redundant portion of the findings section, rolling his eyes and skipping over two whole paragraphs when the hand-holding didn't abate. There was nothing yet that stood out as a glaring impossibility, but the sheer condescension implied in the repetitions was nearly enough to cause him to dismiss it out of hand. The article must have squeaked past the editor's notice—or they'd begun publishing based on reputation alone. He sat back for a moment to compose a caustic letter to her in his head.

Granger hummed in approval, and he heard her turn another page, her chair creaking softly with the movement. He let the snappish letter slip out of his thoughts and focused again on the periodical splayed over his lap, resolving to push to the end of the findings section before switching to something else. Severus had read several other articles by Master Gerdwin in recent years, each more pedantic than the last, but each one had been fuelled by flares of pure inspiration.

That wasn't the case this time.

Severus let out a silent, unimpressed breath as he reached the end of his self-imposed reading limit and debated whether there was any real worth in going further. He supposed he could skim the last two pages—he wasn't particularly fond of leaving things unfinished. It was better to have an overabundance of knowledge than too little, even if much of it ended up being as useful as window trim.

Granger made a soft noise of interest at the back of her throat and then let out an equally-soft huff of air.

Even reading, she was incapable of silence.

Severus let his eyes trail over the first of the pages he had decided to wade through, stopping to read more closely when his gaze snagged on words of interest. Granger continued on with her soft, wordless monologue, somehow managing to be both annoying and inoffensive at once. That was what Severus told himself, anyway. It would have been more accurate to say that her voice was almost entirely swallowed by the crackling of the fire in the grate, that it was no more annoying than ashes being swept by open hand from the hearth. Than turning the page of his periodical.

He heard the clink of Granger's wine glass being placed on the floor, the shuffle of her standing, the quiet slap of her bare feet touching the wooden floor, of crossing over it to reach his chair. 

"You didn't notice," she remarked with a sigh.

"Your monologue while you read?" He asked in a drawl. "I beg to differ."

"I wasn't reading."

His periodical was pinched at the spine and slid from his grip, flopping shut as soon as it left his relaxed fingertips. He finally looked up at her. Her attention was focused on her own right hand, however, which she reached out after a moment, to press her index and middle fingers to the cotton of his shirt. She let her hand fall back to her side, bent down to place the periodical she had still been holding onto the floor.

"I wasn't reading," she said again, expression impassive when she had straightened again."Not really."

He glanced down at the slightly glistening spot on his shirt that her fingers had only just been pressed against

"I see."

Severus shifted in his seat, laying both arms on their respective armrests, his long fingers curling loosely where they hung over the edges. "And what do you expect me to do with this information?"

"Anything you like," she told him, putting on an air of confidence, one that he found strangely attractive, if only because it was pretence.

He turned his palms up, stretching his fingers out lazily in invitation, then let them drop back to where they had been hanging in wait.

As he had expected, she faltered at his unwillingness to take control of the situation, her posture, her brown eyes rounding almost imperceptibly with the uncertainty. As ever, the tiny, corkscrew curls of her hair stuck out every which-way, backlit by the globes of light that lined the walls, by the fire crackling behind her. He watched her clasp her hands together in front of her lap, unconsciously worrying the underside of one of her neatly trimmed nails, picking at imagined dirt. She suddenly noticed her own fidgeting and stopped, letting her hands fall to her sides, to pinch the fabric of her thick skirt instead.

"Hold out your hand," she said to him, the pretence of confidence back in place.

Severus resisted the urge to let the corner of his lips tip to acknowledge his amusement, and instead turned one of his palms upwards again, partially acquiescing to Granger's request. His forearm stayed where it was, weighing down the tired leather padding of the armrest.

Her nostrils flared, lips widening in annoyance for the split-second before she caught herself and forced her expression back into its earlier mask. One woman playing at being another. Granger reached out for his hand and pressed her warm thumb into his upturned palm, guiding it downward, to hover over his lap. When she let go, it was to take a step forward, to climb into the chair with him, her knees sliding in on either side of his legs, warm but less than graceful. She hiked up her skirt, and let the material fall so that it draped partway up his chest, his hand hidden beneath it.

Ah.

Granger had drawn herself up to her full height, short as that was, her torso monopolizing his field of vision. In a breath she placed her hands on his shoulders, her fingertips pressing into the muscles there, inching forward until they hit his shoulder blades. If her legs had felt warm tucked against either side of his own, it was nothing compared to the heat radiating under the modest cover of her skirt. His imagination supplied, with vivid attention to detail, everything his hand might come in contact with, were he to raise it, to let it drop into his lap—but as Granger clearly had some sort of scenario in mind, he made no move to egg things along. His upturned palm hovered where she had directed it earlier, the tension in the space above and below it palpable. Severus imagined sliding his crooked fingers into her deliciously wet—

Granger leaned in further, so that her chest was pressed against his collarbone, and slowly lowered herself into his lap. He very nearly groaned when her slick vulva slid down along his fingers and into his waiting palm, coating his skin with further evidence of her earlier monologue. She let out a short huff of relief near his ear, and then sat up slightly again, fingers tensing against his shoulders with the effort. A tiny, lukewarm current of air breezed over his coated palm, reminded him of what he had only just been holding. He sat back almost imperceptibly in his seat, trying in vain to relieve some of the pressure his trousers were exerting on him, but the slight friction caused by his movement just made things worse.

She slid back into his outstretched hand, less careful this time in bracing herself against his shoulders; he caught almost her entire weight in his palm, his elbow slipping off of the armrest until the back of his hand had been stopped by the bulge in his trousers. It wasn’t the most comfortable sort of pressure he could imagine having there, but as a suggestion of what was to come, the backs of his spiderlike fingers grinding minutely against his erection with each breath that Granger took was infinitely more pleasurable than empty air.

“Take it out,” she suddenly murmured close to his ear.

“It?” he asked, feigning incomprehension, voice just as low.

“You know what I mean,” she retorted, nearly growling with annoyance.

He leaned forward just enough so that his lips were right next to her ear.

“ _Elaborate_.”

He felt her legs shiver minutely on either side of his own.

Her fingertips like moths, pressing anxiously into the flesh of his shoulders, his back.

The forced calm of her breathing.

“Take out your cock.”

He smirked, face still hidden from her, and said nothing. He slowly withdrew the palm of his hand from where he had been supporting her, letting his fingertips linger ever so slightly, slip when they were passing Granger’s clit. She groaned at the unexpected, direct contact.

He could be awfully clumsy every now and again. 

Snape had been wearing the same tailored trousers for nearly a decade (he had several identical pairs) but even he found it something of challenge to unbutton them now, one-handed and unable to see what he was doing. But he managed. He had to wipe his slick fingertips over the fabric of his shirt to prevent them from sliding right over the buttons, Granger breathing in far too enticing a way right near his ear all the while. It was difficult to resist giving himself a stroke when he finally had his penis in-hand. He settled for a squeeze.

“My cock, as you so delicately put it,” he murmured, “is out.”

He smirked to himself again at her unsteady exhale.

“Please tell me you have a dose of potion lying around.” Her voice was low, strained with anticipation.

“The potion is a base,” he said near her ear, “ineffective,” he continued in quiet condemnation, “and invasive contraceptive.” He withdrew his hand from under her skirt, nearly shivering at the difference in temperature, and reached for his wand, tucked in its holster by the side of his chest. “This incantation is in every way superior.”

If it wasn’t more widely known, that was simply because the Ministry, in its _infinite_ wisdom, had deemed it Dark. The classification had happened far before Severus had been born, but the fact that the classification had never been amended spoke volumes. The spell survived only in old, highly-restricted grimoires and through word of mouth. Severus supposed the Ministry itself must have a copy of the spell laying around in an archive so that it could properly identify it being cast illegally. Lucius Malfoy had never offered anyone much in the way of friendship, but his collection of grimoires had to have been one of the most extensive on the continent. Most of which had no doubt remained undiscovered by raid teams, so carefully had it been concealed, even at the expense of unique artefacts. Most objects could be replaced or recreated—it was knowledge that was priceless.

There had been a time, before they’d become too embroiled in the Dark Lord’s ambitions, when Lucius had been one of the only people Severus had considered worth his attention. The man had been intelligent, well-spoken, and scornful—but not outright violent. Though Severus had no doubt that a propensity for violence had always been beneath the surface, had been coaxed out rather than conjured from thin air, it had once been covered over with an abundance of charm. Lucius hadn’t always felt the need to wave money or threats around in order to achieve his ends. _Crass_ , he’d called the practice, a lifetime ago.

Severus felt a minuscule shock run up his arm once he had finished the incantation, and put his wand back in its holster. Figuring he had let Granger squirm enough under his lack of initiative, he placed his hands on her thighs and slid his palms all the way up underneath her skirt until his fingertips reached her hips, the faint swell of her bottom. He could feel her shivering with anticipation, with the minor strain of continuing to hold her torso aloft—just enough to make clear to their bodies what they were missing.

Gripping the back of one of her thighs with one hand, he used the other to tease her clit again, giving her barely a moment to take a breath in before he slid two of his fingers into her vagina. Granger had wrapped her arms around his shoulders completely and was panting into his neck when she slid down his fingers the rest of the way, nudging his thumb past her clit and into her pubic hair. She groaned when the ring on his middle finger slowed her descent.

Holding on to her thigh more firmly, Severus began to stroke her inner walls, withdraw his fingers in order to gently ground the heel of his hand into her clit. He stopped whenever her breathing turned to whimpers or to moans of pleasure, started again just before she could calm down enough to raise her head from his neck. Whether she was fully conscious of it or not, he couldn’t tell, but she had begun to kiss him there, her lips pulling back into a grimace of pleasure against his neck whenever she got too close to orgasm.

“I wonder,” he murmured smugly aloud after he had stilled his fingers for the umpteenth time, “if you’ve considered all your options.”

“Options?” Came her languid, breathless question.

“I could continue to fuck you with my fingers,” he said in a low tone, stroking her to demonstrate. “You _could_ simply leave,” he continued in a reasonable tone, turning his head slightly so that his nose and lips brushed against her hair, “but then you would forgo the third option,” he explained, withdrawing his fingers partway in order to drive them back in, rub her clit suggestively, “which would be for me stick my cock inside you and fuck you until we’re both satisfied.”

“The last one,” she groaned weakly.

“A woefully inadequate answer, Granger.” The smirk unfurled slowly over his features. “Do better.”

“Stick your cock into my…” she trailed off, unable to continue. Groaning in frustration this time, she said instead, “please just do it, Snape. I need you to—” She let out a ragged breath against the side of his neck. “Please.”

“Passable,” he murmured, the smirk still in place.

At her indignant bark of a laugh he withdrew his fingers in order to take her hips with both hands, urging her to finally lower herself all the way into his lap. She was so wet, that the head of his penis slid right in without any sort of resistance, the pulse of her aroused body suddenly surrounding him in an almost overwhelming intensity once she was fully seated in his lap. He let out a groan at the contact.

Tightening his hold around her hips, fingertips pressing into the swell of her bottom, he began to guide her movements, forgetting his smugness, his overabundance of words in the chasing of his orgasm. He was boiling under all the layers of clothing they wore between them, his palms slick with sweat and nearly slipping from her skin, the more frantic their movements became. The muscles of his abdomen burned with the exertion of rising to meet her, of pushing into her each time she ground back into his lap. She came with a strangled cry into his neck, her walls contracting around his penis causing him to quickly follow suit with a growl that was muffled by his barred teeth. He continued to thrust into the heat of her body until he had spent himself completely, her fingers digging into his back through the sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt. Then, with a shaky sigh, her fingers went slack, and she tightened her arms around his shoulders, the rest of her body going limp against his chest.

It took Severus several moments, in his precarious state of gratification, to realize that Granger was crying into his neck.

He slowly slid his hands out from under her skirt and placed his palms back on the armrests of his chair, felt each sob shake through his own body as she fell all the way apart in his lap.

She drowned out the sound of the fire in her anguish, though Severus could see it well enough from where he sat, stared into the muted flames as the minutes passed. At length, he felt cool air rush in against his neck when she pulled away slightly to speak, her voice thick with misery.

“I really needed that.”

She followed the declaration with a self-deprecating chuckle as humourless as her cheeks were wet.

Severus made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat.

“I’m sorry,” she tried again, voice subdued. “I’ve never done that before. I don’t know where it came from.”

When he made no reply, she soldiered on.

“Thank you for holding me.”

It had really been her doing all the holding, but there didn’t seem to be any merit in arguing the point.

“Why did you come here?”

She gave him a flat, humourless smile that unfolded back into a frown almost immediately. Then shrugged, looking away. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

She stared, unfocused, at the door that led to the laboratory, her flushed face catching the light.

“I can be myself.” She sighed, shrugging again. “Maybe.”

She closed her eyes and wiped away the handful of tears that fell at the pronouncement, her mouth twisting in and out of a humourless smile as she tried to regain her composure.

“I see,” he finally remarked, when she had opened her eyes again.

At this, she let out a huff of exasperation, shaking her head at the ceiling. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

“Not if they value their emotional wellbeing.”

“You _do_ talk too much,” she told him, sounding somehow as though a tinge of colour had returned to her voice.

In stilted synchrony they set about cleaning up the mess they had made, a weighty cold settling into Severus’ lap when Granger finally stood, the thick material of her skirt and the warmth that it had trapped leaving with her. Wordlessly, she made her way back to her own chair, bending to retrieve her forgotten elf wine before she sat down, the remaining sips of drink sloshing lazily along with her movements at the bottom of the glass.

"Top it off, if you like," Severus found himself saying in a dry tone, glancing pointedly at her glass when she looked up. "The faster you drink it, the faster I'm rid of it."

"Actually... I think I'll just finish this one and head back," she replied with some amusement—for what, he wasn't entirely certain. "I didn't actually tell the others where I was going, so if I stay away much longer, they may start to turn frantic."

"Suit yourself."

He turned back to face the fire, leaning over slightly until his fingertips could reach the periodical Granger had placed on the floor earlier. He picked it up to continue rifling through the tail end of the lacklustre article, and was about to take a closer look at some of the sources when Granger raised her voice again.

"What have you been reading?"

"Not reading," he corrected her, eyes remaining fixed to the page, "skimming. The article didn't deserve my full attention."

"Oh, really?" She asked, again in that strangely amused tone. "Why's that?"

"Its author was incapable of being concise."

"In what way?"

When he turned to look at her, albeit reluctantly, he found Granger curled up in her chair, feet tucked as far under her legs as they would go; he could tell this only because her knees bulged out only a little from under the cover of her skirt. She had slouched back into the folds of her cloak, tucked herself into the seat at an angle that looked horribly uncomfortable—but reminded him of the way he had found her reading in solitude so many weeks before. She cradled the nearly empty glass of elf wine against her chest, watching him. Wearing a smile, small as it was.

“If you’ve ever had the chore of reading through one of Potter or Weasley’s assignments, then I think you’d be familiar with the issue.”

Granger adopted a long-suffering air after a moment of thought, while also managing to sound fond when she spoke. “I’m assuming it wasn’t simply to pad the length in this case, but—repetition.”

“Yes,” he confirmed with great disapproval. “ _Repetition_.”

She stared at him for a moment and then her expression wavered and she snorted out a small laugh. Severus allowed himself a nearly-imperceptible smirk and returned his attention to the sources.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 is thankfully already started, but as ever I am wrestling with work, procrastination, and writer's block so I'll be just as surprised and delighted (?) as the rest of you when it comes time to press "post". You have my sincere gratitude for your continued support, whether it is voiced or silent.
> 
> Though, on that note... if I may borrow a line from Severus...
> 
>  
> 
> _Elaborate._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Just trying it on for size. It worked for our favourite potions professor, after all. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends—boy, am I glad to finally be posting this!
> 
> I've got a summary of the previous chapter for you below, as well as some important housekeeping notes at the end of the chapter, but for now, without further ado...
> 
>  
> 
> _Fresh from dinner at the burrow, Hermione crashed into the supplementary potions lab, sobbing and setting up a workstation without any ingredients in sight. At her insistence on not being alone (and against his better judgement), Severus invited her into his sitting room for a drink and got more than he had bargained for in return._

It was very different out in the cold night air, worlds away from the strange warmth of the sitting room, of the equally-strange man who inhabited it. Her solitary walk towards the nearest apparition point beyond the school gates had her turning the evening she had spent with Snape over in her mind, striking her with the sorts of uncertainties that hindsight usually caused.

Things she had said, things she had done suddenly held a sickly cast and sat oddly in her stomach.

She thought of how content she had felt, how little she had censored herself—of Snape being pulled out of his post-coital reading in order to answer her questions and respond to her remarks, his eye-rolling and harrumphing at odds with his forthcoming replies.

When she was not in that set of rooms, the word ‘professor’ returned only too readily to her—it had to. There was no way to speak about Snape to anyone else without it as a buffer. Then again, there was no way to speak about him, period. Harry and Ron—Ginny, Mrs. Weasley, _anyone_ —would balk at her using the word ‘friendship’ in conjunction with Snape, let alone hearing out an explanation of whatever it was, exactly, that she currently found herself in. The other side of him that she had begun to see was not enough to erase the weight of his infamy, of the cruelty that she herself had been subjected to more than once.

She could so easily imagine their disgust, their incomprehension, if ever she broached the subject.

Her stomach roiled knowing that reaction was the most sensible one.

But in her mind swam the memory of his hands next to her own on the floorboards, of his measured tone as he spoke her out of a spiralling panic. He may have been a desert when it came to optimism and reassurance, but Hermione hadn’t managed to dry her whole body off once since the end of the war, so great had the rains been, so constant. She had forgotten what it felt like to burn, to let her words crack apart into sharpened points, only slightly under her control. She had forgotten what it felt like to be connected to her own body.

Hermione didn’t have anyone else to burn in front of.

They all needed her to be a cool mountain stream, to flow down the same path she had always taken to get to ground.

\--------

The front hall of Grimmauld Place was completely dark when she entered, as was the kitchen, but there was muffled conversation drifting down from another floor and several pairs of boots (one of which she didn’t recognize) lined up messily near the door. She added her own to the jumble, pointing her wand at the door to lock it as an afterthought. The wealth of charms and enchantments protecting the property made the addition of a garden-variety _Alohamora_ to their number rather laughable, but it certainly couldn’t hurt. Hermione let her cloak fall from her shoulders and sent it sailing gracefully to settle on one of the empty hooks along the wall; her beaded bag she kept at her hip.

The stairs creaked softly as she began to climb them, the ancient carpeting still thick, but unyielding under the balls of her feet. Passing the landing of the second floor, there was finally a lull in the indiscriminate conversation and from further up came a hesitant greeting.

"Hermione?"

"It's me," she called back in reassurance, taking the rest of the steps in a halting jog.

Light spilled out into the landing from the partly-closed door of the library (though it didn't quite reach as far as the top step); so close, she could finally make out the voices in the room. Harry had been the one who had called out to her, but Ron's greeting soon followed, along with one from someone whose voice she couldn't possibly mistake for another. She probably never would get used to that dreamy, ponderous tone.

"Well just look at you, finally gracing us with your presence," Ron teased her as she entered the room, gesturing his nearly-empty glass at her. "Only took you until—" He made an exaggerated show of checking the grandfather clock behind him, "past one in the morning."

"You must have been cultivating phosphorescent fungi," Luna added with a slow smile. "They do seem to fare much better in the dark, and especially well on holidays when they can absorb the ambient cheer."

Ron shook his head as if to say 'complete bollocks', but then shrugged and raised his glass to her.

"That's _exactly_ what I was doing," Hermione replied with considerable sarcasm, before she could catch herself.

"Oh... testy," Harry remarked, sharing a significant look with the others. "You may well have found her out, Luna."

"I don't think so," Luna said, shaking her head so softy that the liquor in her glass barely reacted. She turned her unnerving gaze on Hermione. "We're your friends so we'll understand if you'd rather keep it private."

"No, no, Luna," Ron corrected her with relish, "it's precisely _because_ we're her friends that she mustn't keep it private."

"That is some excellent reasoning, Ron."

"Thank you, Harry."

Hermione gave the pair of them a flat, unimpressed look, and then deflated into a semblance of good humour. "Can I at least have something to drink first?"

"Absolutely."

She finally took off her beaded bag, placed it carefully atop the piano bench as she passed it, and fell back with a huff into the empty stretch of the couch that Harry was occupying. The other two sat opposite, Luna sprawled against an armrest with her cheek digging into the palm of her hand, eyes cast towards the ceiling, and Ron slouched, one long leg crossed loosely over the other. By the time Hermione had settled into her seat, Ron had already waved her over a glass, and a bottle of wine with which to fill it. She raised the bottle up slightly in a silent show of gratitude, and then poured herself a drink.

"It's too bad you couldn't have made it back earlier," Harry said, reaching for one of the few remaining biscuits in a dish on the coffee table in the centre of the seats. "George and Charlie were over for bit, but left after a couple rounds of exploding snap. And then Dean showed up—Seamus not long after."

"Dean just popped in for a chat, though—he said he'd been running around all day with his sisters and didn't fancy waking up tomorrow—"

"—today," Harry corrected him.

"Whatever," Ron sighed, waving him off with amused impatience. "He didn't fancy waking up later _today_ with a hangover when he's meant to be doing more 'family stuff', as he called it, so he left before any of us could tempt him."

"Smart man." Harry shook his head in admiration.

Hermione glanced around the room when neither of them continued. "Is Seamus still here, then?"

"Nah. Gone as well—couldn't have been more than twenty minutes ago. He'd only just got back from his parents' but decided to come over because Dean was already here and he figured he'd come say _Merry Christmas_ to everyone at once. Poor bloke has to work tomorrow, or I'm certain he would have stayed longer." Harry absently brushed the crumbs off of his fingers and into a napkin, which he crumpled up and set on the coffee table. "He had us playing charades until Dean left, and then regaled us with stories about his uncle—" Ron let out a snort, prompting Harry to share a grin with him. "Yeah, anyway—hilarious—I wouldn't do a retelling justice, so I won't bother."

"The _escargit_..." Ron trailed off with a faint accent and a breathy chuckle, prompting a small smile from Luna and a head shake from Harry, grin still in place.

"Sounds like you all enjoyed yourselves," Hermione remarked, trying to keep her tone light, managing a natural-enough smile.

"The enjoyment is still in progress."

" _Right_." Hermione did chuckle for real at that, at Ron's mock-seriousness. "Ginny didn't want to come?"

"She's off with her friends, apparently," Ron told her with an air of disapproval. "Mum was in a bit of a snit about it. She wasn't too impressed with your disappearing act so soon after dinner either, but Ginny's took the heat off of you a bit."

Hermione glanced over at Harry, who was quiet. Not that that was unusual of late.

"You'd think she'd place more importance on time spent with family," Ron continued, his disapproval turning more theatrical as he closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. "Instead, she leaves our Harry here to ride the rest of Christmas night out alone."

"I'm fine, mate," Harry remarked wryly. "Also—not currently alone."

"It's not actually Christmas anymore," Luna supplied helpfully, eyes still wandering the paint cracks in the ceiling.

"My concerns get absolutely no respect around here."

Hermione sent Ron a raised eyebrow, good humour colouring her voice. "You really should take a look at the clock before you start slinging down heavy accusations."

"Look, my clock growing up was in a constant state of existential flux—crisis, even. It didn't have bloody numbers on it, so excuse my lack of concern for the general passage of time."

Harry sought out Hermione's eyes and they both failed to resist a snort of laughter. Ron pointed at them accusingly, trying to maintain his melodramatic air, but capitulated quickly, dissolving into his own bout of self-conscious laughter.

"I don't think that's a very good excuse for not being able to tell the time," Luna's voice drifted in, matter of fact.

"You've been told, Ron," Harry teased him.

Across from Hermione, Ron folded his free arm over his chest and took a pointed sip of his drink, but he was hiding a smile behind the rim of his glass.

\--------

"Any idea what you'd like?" Harry asked as he led Hermione out onto the landing. "I'm fine with whatever."

"A full roast."

Harry glanced back at Hermione with flat disapproval, making her laugh.

"Toast. I'm fine with toast."

"I'll do you one better: there's still some meatloaf left in the posh magic fridge, enough for a snack for the both of us."

"Well... I suppose."

"It's not _that_ bland... I thought you liked it!"

"I did!" She hesitated for a moment, and when she spoke again, he could hear the apologetic humour in her voice. "There _is_ room for improvement though."

Harry tsked, a bitter smile spreading over his face. She wasn't wrong.

"So, I didn't want to ask up there, but... why exactly is Luna here?"

"We invited her."

"You know what I meant, Harry."

"It's more fun to pretend I didn't, though."

"Harry..."

"Now, don't get all worked up about it." Harry elbowed her gently in the arm, feeling playful as they entered the kitchen. "Ron and I didn't get a chance to go over the contract with her at the Burrow—too much going on—so we figured we'd get it all sorted out back here."

"And have you?"

"Not yet." Harry couldn't help the self-conscious chuckle that escaped him.

"I'm trying really hard not to comment, Harry," she informed him in a solemn tone. "I'll admit, though, that it is surprisingly nice sometimes, when people do exactly what you'd expect them to."

Harry waved her off with an incredulous bark of laughter.

"And you know, on second thought, I'm glad neither of you returned to Hogwarts this year. I suppose I really _don't_ miss the two of you constantly doing all your assignments last minute and peppering me with questions. You wouldn't believe the extra revision time I've been able to get in this year."

"Oh, please," Harry scoffed, though there was an edge of humour to his voice, "we weren't anywhere _near_ that demanding; you just couldn't stand how slow we were being and insisted on helping."

"So you never begged me to read over any of your essays?"

Harry patted the tabletop pointedly as he passed it to open the fridge.

"Now, now, Hermione, _beg_ is a very strong word."

"Don't you 'now, now' me," she shot back, grin evident in her voice. "That tone has guilt written all over it." Harry heard her pull a chair out from the table, and as he turned away from the fridge, dish in-hand, saw her plop into her usual seat. "Anyway, shall we just eat here?"

"Might as well."

"Did you want any help?"

"No, no," he shook his head, summoning two plates from a cupboard a few steps away. "Just need to cast a few warming charms—nothing I can't handle."

"Suit yourself," came her mild reply.

"So... where _were_ you, then?"

"What d'you mean?"

Harry glanced back at her, eyebrows raised; she clicked her tongue and evaded his gaze.

"It's clear you didn't simply come back home to Grimmauld place, so..."

"I figured you wouldn't let that one go," she said with a small laugh that to Harry's ears sounded almost forced. "I..." She crossed her arms over her chest, settling more comfortably against the backrest of the chair; Harry returned his attention to serving an equal portion of leftover meatloaf to each plate. "I was feeling a bit homesick, and so I went back to my grandparents' village to walk around a bit, because we spent so many Christmases there when I was little. But of course someone else lives in their old house now, so it wasn't nearly as comforting to go back there as I had hoped it would be—which warned me off of going back to my parents' house... so I found a place that was still open and serving drinks, and I settled in to read for a bit, get my bearings."

"Sorry, Hermione."

"No, it's fine... really."

He set a plate in front of her, another in front of his own chair before pulling it out to sit down.

"I do... understand, though," he offered, tentative.

"I know," she conceded, nodding with a bitter sort of smile. "Of course you do."

"I kind of wish you'd have told me," he admitted, looking down at the fork and knife he had in hand and trying to decide which end of his portion of loaf to carve off first. "I mean, last year, you were there for _me_ —"

"It really—it wasn't as difficult as all that, Harry. Honestly." She was cutting up the entirety of her slice in one go, sectioning it into even pieces. "And I didn't even know that that was exactly what I was going to do until my feet sort of carried me there. But if there is a next time..."

"All you need to do is ask—me _or_ Ron," Harry reminded her. "You know we're here for you."

She glanced up at him with a small smile, nodding.

"Well... did you maybe... want to chat about it a little more?"

He watched her expression contort, shift from displeasure to something more pleasant, but somehow still off, still awkward. "I thought on it a lot already—I'm just, maybe..." She gave him that bitter smile again. "Not quite keen on thinking about it anymore tonight."

"Yeah, no, that's alright," Harry assured her, nodding his head at his plate, stuffing a piece of meatloaf into his mouth.

"Anyway..." she trailed off, chewing and swallowing what she had had in her mouth. "I'm more curious about why Ginny isn't here."

Harry tried very hard not to keep his expression from betraying him. "Ron already mentioned—she's off with friends."

When Hermione didn't immediately reply, Harry looked up only to jump slightly at the level gaze being directed at him.

"Yes, I remember what Ron said."

"Yeah, well..."

"Harry," she sighed, still looking directly into his eyes, even when he had to glance away at the table, nerve somehow deserting him. "You have been avoiding Ron and I for days about this—I just think—"

" _What_?"

She said his name again in a sort of plea, and he realized he'd cut her off, tone a lot snappier than he had intended. He groaned and pressed his face into the palm of his hand, elbow pressing into one of the smoothed-out cracks in the wood grain of the table.

"You know that I'm not going to think badly of you—"

"You might."

"Maybe." He could hear a smile in her voice.

Harry sighed again, feeling even wearier this time. A part of him so badly wanted to let everything out in a landslide, to take her down with him—but she'd had her own shit sort of night to tackle before coming back to the house, and so adding to it didn't seem like the right thing to do. The larger part of him had been avoiding opening this particular can of worms for days, and was fully intent on continuing to do so. Over brunch: that would be best. He could make their favourites and—

"We broke up," Harry blurted out, shifting against the table so that he could cradle his forehead in both of his hands, marvel at his own impeccable sense of timing. He let out a sigh of exasperation at himself. She didn't make a sound for—according to Harry's best estimation—an agonizingly quiet five years' time.

"What?"

Frankly, five years should have been long enough for her to come up with a more substantial question.

"No, wait—don't," she protested, before he'd even so much as lifted his head to explain. "Harry, are you serious?"

He lifted his head, let his chin rest on the backs of his hands, and gave her a look.

"Alright, yes, stupid question."

He hid his face again just as Hermione tilted her head in the way she always did when she was about to lend a sympathetic ear. He didn't feel particularly deserving of sympathy at the moment, though.

"Have you told Ron?"

"Not yet," he sighed again.

"You need to."

"I know," he all but groaned at the table.

"Well, as long as you know," Hermione replied, having the gall to let out a small chuckle at his expense. She sobered. "Did it only just happen tonight?"

Harry nodded. "Just after dinner."

She let out a long, slow breath. "Well... start from the beginning, I suppose. What happened?"

"I dunno, it was just..." Harry grimaced at the table, his chest a tight, confusing mix of grief and relief. "She asked to talk to me alone, we went out onto the porch, and she... told me it was over."

"Why?" Came Hermione's gentle question.

"Several things," Harry replied, taking a deep breath and lowering his forearms and chin to the table, giving her a flat smile as he spoke. "Mainly, because I wasn't treating her like an equal."

Hermione mirrored his flat smile.

"I mean, the thing is," Harry admitted, breaking eye contact with Hermione, "she wasn't wrong and I... I'd sort of noticed it for myself not that long ago, but it scared me, and I figured it was just due to us spending so much time apart, so I... avoided thinking about it. And I suppose avoided her in the process. Merlin, I don't even know what the hell to feel."

"I'm sorry Harry."

"Trust me, I'm not the one in need of sympathy right now," Harry said wryly.

"Well, whether or not you consider it for the best, it still must have been a shock."

Harry shrugged.

"What made you notice for yourself?"

He forced himself to look up at her softly-asked question, annoyance at his own inability to keep his mouth shut surging. This, along with guilt at receiving such a sympathetic ear... especially when he didn't deserve one. Even setting his feelings aside, Harry wasn't certain how to voice what he needed to. How to order things, or what to leave out. Hermione just kept watching him with that patient, open expression.

There had always been things in Harry's life that he couldn't—hadn't—told Hermione. Embarrassing happenstances that may or may not have been caused by the 'magic' of puberty, truths that he felt likely to hurt her... But before he had realized it, the pool had grown larger to contain things that she would have understood, appreciated, had he wanted to say them. There was simply a gulf where the mundane and unimportant used to lie, and they'd built a temporary bridge to ferry those things across, just for the holidays.

Harry had felt horrified to find himself thinking of her as a visitor when she had arrived with her trunk for the holidays, a knee-jerk reaction to her prolonged absence from his immediate surroundings. 

Though sitting across the table from her now, he could almost forget the distance, feel himself back in the tent, when everyday existence had been whittled down to just the two of them, each mundane interaction drunk hastily down to stave off the feeling of isolation. Of course, what he needed to tell her now was anything but mundane.

"I met someone," Harry finally made himself say. When he could get up the courage to look at her, he recoiled at the frown she was directing at him. "No, not like that!" Harry exclaimed with alarm, waving his hands in front of his face. "I would never do that to Ginny." He glanced at Hermione again, and was dismayed to find the slight, calculating frown still in place. "I should say, it was more like I _ran into_ someone," Harry corrected himself, no longer meeting her eyes, "and, erm, it really... just kind of made me realize that maybe in some important ways, I've still been trying to please everyone else. I think maybe..." Harry trailed off, grimacing. "I feel so horrible saying this."

Harry looked off towards the entrance of the kitchen, both surprised and relieved when he felt Hermione give him a reassuring squeeze on the forearm. He may not have deserved her support or her sympathy, but that didn't mean he wouldn't drink it down if offered.

"I think I might have been with Ginny because I thought I should be, and not because..." he sighed. "I feel so horrible."

"It's okay, Harry."

"Not really, though."

"No, it is. No one gets it all figured out without causing some pain and confusion at a certain point."

"I suppose."

"And you didn't actually _do_ anything—"

"No, no—Merlin, no," Harry cut her off hastily. "It was really just... a thought-provoking conversation I had with someone I didn't expect, that's all."

He looked up in time to see Hermione reach forward to pat his forearm again.

"Then... You did the best you could have. "

"I could have told her earlier."

"Sure, you could have, and she'd still have been crushed," Hermione replied shrugging with a sympathetic smile.

Harry sighed and lowered his chin back onto the table.

"Feelings have a will of their own," Hermione continued, finally taking another quick bite of meatloaf which caused her to finish her thought out of the corner of her mouth. "It's alright that you started to doubt and feel confused—it's likely that she did too."

"I guess she must have, to have brought it up at all."

"See?"

"Doesn't stop my feeling horrible, though."

"Well it wouldn't be fair if you got off scot-free, now, would it?"

Harry sent her a mock-scowl. "It would be nice, though."

"Wouldn't it just."

"We probably would never have been truly happy together," Harry suddenly found himself remarking in a sober tone, the false scowl melting off of his features and leaving behind an honest frown.

He heard Hermione's fork clink against her plate, felt her kick his shin lightly under the table—though he wasn't sure what that had been meant to convey.

"I mean, sure, it probably was destined to end," Harry sighed, "but the thought of having to _tell_ everyone..."

"Harry," Hermione said, sounding again like she was speaking out of the corner of your mouth, "I'm only going to say this once—and I think you already know this better than most people—there are always going to be those who aren't pleased with your choices. But they aren't the ones living your life, so they don't truly get a say. And I know that you're going to have the added pressure of the press getting wind of things eventually," she continued, pausing to swallow, "which I'm certain will generate a lot of stupid, useless opinions from people who don't know the first thing about you, but they're just that: stupid, useless opinions. You're under no obligation to entertain them."

He looked up at her, finally, to see her pointedly directing her fork at him (he doubted she was aware of how menacing it looked and almost let out a chuckle at the picture she made).

"If you're worried about telling the Weasleys, don't be," Hermione went on. "You aren't Ginny's Boyfriend, you're Harry Potter, Who Happened to be Dating Ginny. There's a difference. As disappointed as any one of them might be, you're still Harry to them, first and foremost; they all genuinely care about you and would want you to be happy."

"But—"

"I'm speaking from a position of direct experience, don't forget."

Harry closed his mouth, mollified.

"Just... trust me, Harry. Things will work themselves out."

Harry sat back up and pulled his plate closer, not knowing what to say to that. She was probably right, and it was true that he had sort of forgotten that she'd gone through something similar with Ron not that long ago, but he was also pretty certain that his own situation would lead to complications she hadn't yet considered. He figured feeding himself was as good a start as any to tackling them.

"So... who was it, then?"

Harry nearly flinched at the sudden question. "Sorry?"

"The person you ran into that caused all this soul searching to happen?"

"Oh... Not really important."

"In other words: of vital importance," Hermione countered with considerable mirth.

Harry appetite suddenly vanished again.

"You don't have to tell me," Hermione reminded him, the mirth still colouring her words, "but I _am_ curious, and that's as good a reason as any to tell me, don't you think?"

"Ah, yes, satisfying your curiosity is my new purpose in life."

"I'm glad you've come to that realization."

Harry made a considering noise at the back of his throat. "I don't think I'm going to tell you, though."

"What have I done to deserve such callousness?"

"You said my meatloaf was bland."

"But I've been enjoying it this whole time! See? My plate is nearly clean!"

Harry gave her an exaggerated frown, shrugging. "Too little, too late, Hermione."

"You tosser."

Harry recoiled in surprise at the epithet, trying not to laugh.

"Why is everyone so scandalized when I use words like that?" Hermione asked him in earnest, laughing self-consciously.

"They're not very 'you', are they?"

"Well perhaps my lexicon is changing."

" _That_ word is very 'you', though."

Hermione huffed in annoyance, rolling her eyes.

"Well. This 'tosser' is just about ready to head back up," Harry said, shoving another piece of meatloaf into his mouth.

"You think I'm just going to let the subject drop, don't you?"

"Hoping and thinking are two very different things."

"Talking about it will make you feel better, I promise."

"Pretty certain it won't," Harry snorted.

"Why?" Hermione asked, sounding genuinely confused. "I mean, you said it was just thought-provoking conversation, nothing more."

Harry shook his head and stared at his plate before forcing himself to take another bite.

"What could she possibly have said to have made you this uncomfortable?"

Harry rubbed at his face with the palm of his hand. "It was another bloke that I ran into, alright?"

"Oh. And?" Hermione prompted him, confusion still evident in her voice. 

"Nevermind," Harry sighed heavily.

"Harry, I'm just trying to—" She stopped mid-sentence. "Wait. Are you trying to say that..."

"Trying to say what?" Harry's lips had twisted into a sour grimace of their own accord.

"That the fact that he was a bloke was... significant?"

Harry couldn't get his voice to work, and his lips were petrified in place, anyway.

"Harry—that's... wow." Hermione's voice lowered, and the sympathetic lilt had returned to it. "Are you sure? Have you read anything about the—the... signs?"

He was jolted out of his intense discomfort by a bark of humourless laughter at her predictable response. He tried to form his lips into a smile, but he couldn't help the sarcastic tone that welled up in him. "No, I can't say I've gone down to old Flourish and Blotts to pick up How To Tell If You're—" He stopped for a moment, his throat closing up at the thought of saying the word aloud. "I'm pretty fucking certain someone would take notice."

"I could go find some books for you," she offered in a gentle tone. "They might help. Or we could both go to a Muggle bookshop—far less likely that anyone would recognize us there."

"Oh, Hermione," Harry sighed, feeling his heart swell and constrict painfully, "never change."

"I _am_ going to update my lexicon whether you're prepared for that or not," She joked weakly.

Harry finally looked at her, trying to give her a smile, but it was hard when he felt so exposed, when her own smile was so uncertain, so tentative and sympathetic.

"Look, before you do anything, you have to inform yourself," Hermione said, her voice strengthening a little with resolve, with tackling the uncertainty in a way she was familiar with. "Otherwise, you'll simply stay confused. Right?" Harry nodded reluctantly. "And you need to tell Ron, of course."

"I will," Harry assured her, though the thought of the conversation left his stomach in knots.

She must have read the reluctance on his face, because she added, "he's your best friend, Harry. Any stupid jokes aside—and we know there'll be plenty—he'll support you."

"You're my best friend too," Harry protested, feeling a pang at her words.

She smiled at him, the corners of her lips tightening again with sympathy—though for who, he wasn't certain. He couldn't look into her eyes, and so looked back down at his plate.

"Things really will work themselves out, Harry," came her soft assurance.

He decided to let himself believe it. Even if only until he'd cleared his plate.

\--------

They'd had a difficult several days, her and Ron trying to convince Harry to talk, and then grappling with the resulting uncertainty, the discomfort that was inevitable when one's view of the world suddenly changed. Hermione hadn't managed to drag Harry to a bookstore, and so had gone on her own to one of her favourite places in Muggle London to pick up a handful of titles that she figured might help him—she knew very well it would be a miracle if he read even one of them cover to cover, but she hadn't needed a miracle. Maybe she had simply wanted to leave behind tangible evidence of her support, to give him something to leaf through, at least, if the mood struck. Not to mention, she had kept one of the titles for herself, intent on being better-informed when next they were able to meet.

Ron, for his part, had taken the break-up with far less tumult than she had expected, seeming sad while simultaneously expressing a lack of surprise. She hadn't been with them when Harry had let Ron in on what he had _truly_ been grappling with, but aside from their visible uncertainty afterwards, it had been as Hermione had predicted: Ron had been steadfast in his support, all the while ribbing Harry about this that and the other thing.

_Do you think other blokes would find me attractive?_ Ron had asked apropos of nothing over dinner one night. Harry had shaken his head, clutching his belly as he laughed. She supposed that had been the point at which the three of them had recalibrated their shared sense of normalcy.

Though she had planned on leaving to go back to Hogwarts for the new term only after having eaten dinner, Hermione had found out over breakfast that Harry and Ron had made plans days earlier to meet with Seamus and Dean for the evening. Despite their earnest invitation for her to join the four of them, Hermione hadn't been able to help but imagine herself as a third wheel and had declined without any real hard feelings; sometimes, Harry and Ron's friendship took up too much space for her to exist within it, alongside it. Where that fact had once caused her an enormous amount of pain, it now existed as a tiny depression on the side of her heart—there, but ultimately harmless. A defect that she simply had to come to terms with.

They'd had an informal lunch in the library, sitting around the coffee table and talking in low tones, laughter bursting into all corners of the space at unexpected moments. And then Hermione had gathered her things, said her goodbyes, and left for Hogsmeade. 

The village was filled with activity when she arrived, though the light snowfall put a damper on sounds that would otherwise have carried far. Carts had been dragged out into the main street, produce protected from the worst of the weather with colourful, charmed awnings that served also to attract villagers whose pantries were looking spare. Hermione might have been tempted to pick up some fresh vegetables herself (and bread— _Merlin_ , she could smell it from the other side of the street), had she been returning to Grimmauld, but fresh ingredients would go to waste in her dormitory at Hogwarts. And in any case, the meals that the Hogwarts elves prepared were far from being a consolation prize.

Craving something sweet, Hermione decided to make her way to the cafe near Bridgebrooke's Books, giving Madam Puddifoot's a wide berth as she passed it. Sun and Earth Cafe was dimly lit by a few wall sconces and a fire burning in a fireplace, most of the illumination coming in through the wall-length windows that the front door had been build into. The windows might once have been enough to light the entire space themselves, but Hermione could not remember a time when they hadn't been partially obscured by leafy-green plants of all shapes and sizes, a lone ivy plant the most industrious of the lot. Established two doors down from Bridgebrooke's in 1895, Sun and Earth Cafe had, over the years, become a sort of go-to for patrons of the book shop. Similar to a library, they had a quiet policy that was palpable upon entering; the loudest sounds came from the kitchen and counter all the way in the back, but even those were muffled, likely by a charm or ward of some kind, the barrister only ever speaking to customers in low tones. It was the best place in the village to settle down with a book for a quiet hour or two, especially if one was in the mood for a fresh-baked dessert.

Hermione hesitated when she reached the front door, conscious of the fact that she had finished reading all the books she had brought with her for the holidays (she had several pages left of one of them, but the work of fifteen minutes hardly counted as 'reading material'). There was nothing for it. She'd just have to buy a new book. Hermione tried to suppress a self-deprecating smile as she continued on down the sidewalk buried under fresh snow, but wore an unapologetically cheerful expression by the time she let herself inside the shop. Forty-some well-spent minutes later, she headed back for the cafe, a brand-new book tucked under her arm.

Hermione ordered herself a cup of coffee, along with a sample plate of pastries, and went to sit at an open table, as near to the fire as she could get. She took off her cloak to drape it over the back of her chair to dry, and then settled in to read what she had selected at Bridgebrooke's. Over the course of the hour and a half that she sat there, she ordered another coffee as well as the full-size versions of the two pastries she had enjoyed the most from her sample plate. She probably wouldn't eat all that much for her supper, but that was worthwhile for how delicious the pastries were. When finally she realized that even the patrons that had arrived after her had already left, she decided it was probably time to make her way back to the castle to unpack before supper was served in the Great Hall. And judging by how much more thickly the snow was falling outside now, she was in for more exercise than she had originally bargained for. She silently thanked herself for going to the trouble of making her trunk shrinkable over the summer, as ordinarily, the contents would have to be shrunk before the container—but an exhausting set of permanent wards had changed that.

Either because it was late in the afternoon, or because the snow was coming down harder than before, there were less villagers out walking around than when she had first arrived. Only a handful of the produce stands were still open, most of the vendors having closed up and left for the day; she could hear the muffled sound of music being played when she passed The Three Broomsticks, a local having likely taken up a guitar to serenade the other patrons after a long day of work. Well. Even a few hours could feel long after an extended holiday and the many extravagant meals it generally entailed.

Once she got to the path that connected Hogsmeade to Hogwarts, the wind grew colder, gathering speed over the fields; Hermione had to concede to the weather and pull her hood over her head, shrunken trunk knocking against her thigh in her pocket as she walked. She walked the path mostly by memory, as the snowfall and wind had worked together to bury it while she had been sitting warm and dry in Sun and Earth Cafe. The solitude was somehow soothing, an unimposing presence that seemed to want to do all the listening in the conversation; by the time she reached the section of the path that wound near the Forbidden Forest, she had slowed her pace considerably in order to draw out the time alone. Shortly after reaching the Great Lake, she was startled by the sound of another set of boots crunching through the snow. She tightened a hand around her wand under the cover of her cloak and turned to look.

" _Neville_?"

Her shadow pedestrian let out a small huff of laughter, muffled by the snowfall. "Hermione?"

She stopped and watched him press the satchel he wore securely to his side, jog to catch up to her, his cheeks pink with cold. He wore a bemused but pleased smile.

"Merlin, how long's it been?" He laughed, enveloping her in a hug that she was too surprised to return at first. "You're heading back to the castle for the new term, right?"

"Yes, but—what're you—"

"I've finally given in," he told her with a wry sort of smile. "I've been owling Professor Sprout for advice these past months—I've been apprenticing with a Herbologist in southern France, you know. It's been brilliant, and he knows more than anyone, I would say, about the species of plants found in the southern region of France, but Professor Sprout has a much wider range of knowledge and so I went to her with all the many questions my mentor was unable to answer. She was happy to direct me to resources or to give me explanations when they were scarce, but in return, she's been trying to convince me to come back to Hogwarts. I'd been pretty firm in saying no, but then she mentioned wanting to retire, and I realized that I'd somehow pictured her always being there at the school to answer my questions..." he trailed off, shaking his head in amused exasperation at himself. "And then she said she'd like the position of Herbology professor to be mine, provided I could measure up during an apprenticeship with her."

Hermione's face snapped to his, wide-eyed. "Neville, that's wonderful!"

"I know, but..." he trailed off, looking away to grin shyly. "Nothing's set in stone yet, so let's not get ahead of ourselves. I mean, I have to measure up."

Hermione shook her head at him, giving him a flat look that melted into mirth, caused Neville to let out a short laugh.

"I'm not going to get my hopes up right away, is all I'm saying. It's not every day you get to apprentice with such an experienced Herbologist, though, so at the very least, even if she decides someone else would be a better fit for the school, I should learn what I can from her. And I might as well finish my NEWTs while I'm at it. This place is sort of..." he trailed off with the awkward beginnings of a grimace, looking down the path that led to Hogwarts, hidden from view by the thick cover of trees. "It's difficult to come back—and it's the easiest thing in the world. I don't know if that makes sense."

"It makes perfect sense," Hermione told him in a subdued voice.

"I thought it might," Neville sighed. "Look, let's keep talking while we walk."

"Alright," Hermione agreed in a mild tone, kicking up a tiny cloud of fluffy, new-fallen snow as she turned back towards the castle. They walked in silence for several paces, but before Hermione could think of a way to break it, Neville spoke up again.

"So... how has it been to live at Hogwarts as a proper adult?"

Hermione shot him an amused glance. "I don't know about the 'proper' part, but... not all that different, I guess."

"Oh, but it must be interesting to have your own quarters, though—I've been looking forward to that."

"I still live in Gryffindor tower, actually—sleep with the 7th year girls." Hearing herself say it aloud, she suddenly felt almost embarrassed by that choice she had made months ago.

"Wait—really?" Neville sounded so taken-aback that Hermione was surprised he hadn't stopped in his tracks. "Why?"

"I guess..." Hermione let out a breath and shook her head slightly. "I dunno, I didn't really want to be alone. And having my own quarters, I would have been."

"Well, when you put it like that..." Neville said nothing for a minute or two, just walked beside her, the cold crinkle of his leather coat filling her ears. "You know, it's a really good point."

His sudden musing made her jump—imperceptibly, she hoped. "What is?'

"McGonagall mentioned that I'd be placed in a sort of guest wing—the area of the castle where they stashed the most important visitors during the Triwizard tournament. Now, quarters sound lovely, but an entire _wing_ to myself?" He shook his head. "Hermione, I'm going to have to ask you for a favour."

She let out a sharp, incredulous chortle. "Really."

"Absolutely."

She sent him a sideways glance, raising her eyebrow at him, barely able to contain her amusement. "You want me to leave Gryffindor tower."

"Yes, _of course_ I do!"

She started to laugh as soon as he did, somewhat embarrassed at his own outburst—Neville's cheeks were pink with cold and he yawned mid-laugh, making them both laugh harder.

"It's been a long trip back here," Neville explained belatedly, when all that remained of their mirth was grins plastered over both of their faces. "But, honestly, all joking aside... it would be brilliant if you joined me in that wing."

"I mean, it probably would be brilliant," Hermione admitted, holding her hands in front of her slightly in a half-conscious gesture of caution, "it's just, I'm already all settled in the dormitory, and I _did_ tell the Headmistress—"

"I'm going to stop you there," Neville cut in, sweeping a hand through the falling snow. "I am completely certain that she would move you, and happily, if you only asked." He hesitated, and his voice took on a sombre quality. "Look, Hermione... we're adults. We don't belong with the other students. I know only a year, maybe less, separates us from a handful of those students, but a hell of a lot can happen in a year. Merlin—we took on responsibilities that witches and wizards twice our age have never had to and now never will. The point is... the point is, you must have felt that, in some way?"

Hermione thought of the dungeons and their strange draw, of purposeful antagonism and an almost overwhelming sense of loneliness. Of the way she fit adjacent to Ginny's life, to her friends. Of the double life she had begun to lead, in which she was both a student calmly toiling away, and an emotional wreck, floundering in a manner that would have rendered her unrecognizable to anyone who knew her well. Including herself.

She thought of a certain companionship that never came without its own complicated pain.

"I suppose I have," she settled on admitting, voice almost lost behind the crunch of their boots into the hard under-layer of snow.

"Then please, for _my_ sake..." Neville chuckled to himself. "No, but really. I can't imagine she would say no if you asked. Just think of all the terrific late-night conversations we might have, especially since we could openly stock our quarters with alcohol."

Hermione glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow, expression wry.

"Oh, you're interested now, are you?" Neville chuckled.

"Just a little."

Neville stopped his prodding after that, albeit reluctantly, and easily fell into recounting stories about his recent apprenticeship at the questions Hermione posed quietly out of genuine interest. They had spoken very little, just the two of them, between the end of the war and Neville secreting himself away to the continent, and Hermione was struck by just how much he had changed. Or perhaps more aptly, by how much more, well, _himself_ he was. There was the occasional self-conscious chuckle when he noticed himself running away with the retellings, or delving into an enthusiastic explanation of a little-known fact or feature—but unlike in the past, now he let himself simply exist as he was. He could laugh at himself and get on with things. The nervous, shame-faced boy she had known only two years earlier was nowhere to be found. In his stead was a man with a healthy sense of humour and a confidence tempered by humility.

And Hermione could admit, if only to herself, that Neville was far and away more knowledgeable than she was about Herbology. It was somewhat disorienting to be in the position of the friend with less knowledge, but thrilling too. The more he spoke, the more certain she was that she would never catch up to him in that particular area of academia; she would always be two steps behind, drinking in what he said, questions churning just under her tongue. His eyes lit up the way that Harry's or Ron's did when they spoke at length about Quidditch, the way that Hermione's probably did when she was going on about the latest thing she had read to a half-attentive audience.

She tried to imagine Snape's eyes lighting up and nearly snorted out an inappropriate laugh.

Though... she supposed that there was something to be said for the expression he wore when they discussed comically disastrous academic articles.

"What're you off thinking about in that brain of yours?"

Hermione let out a self-conscious huff of laughter. "Nothing, really."

"Alright then, I won't pry." He went quiet for a moment before letting out his own huff of air. "Wow. It really is a beautiful sight, isn't it?"

"Like something out of a fairy story," Hermione agreed, smiling at the castle towers in the distance, covered in snow and reaching for the clouds.

"You sort of get desensitized to it when you're just going about your day-to-day, don't you?"

"Clearly," Hermione chuckled, still admiring the view from their position just outside the main gates to the lawn proper. "You should know, though... there are sections of the castle that are still badly damaged, or inhospitable—for lack of a better term."

"I figured ... Coming back would probably feel even stranger if everything looked exactly as it did before."

"Well, it's not just the look," Hermione corrected him gently. "The hall outside of the Room of Requirement now causes just about everyone who passes through to feel physically ill."

Neville was quiet.

"It really depends on the person." They passed through the gates, finally, and started to carve a footpath through the snow on the lawns. "I have an idea about why that is, actually."

"I'd like to hear it," Neville said, sounding solemn.

"Well, I'm one of the few people who can actually sit in the area for long periods of time without too much trouble. And I know of at least one other person who can as well. Just based on that, I had a bit of a realization. See, the Fiendfyre was so incredibly destructive that it mangled at least some of the castle's inherent magic, as well. So walking through that hall, it's almost like moving too quickly through two areas of differing pressure, and then back again. It's like diving underwater, or rising too quickly into the air..."

"Hmm, right—I see what you're getting at."

"Kind of a crude explanation, but that's the basic idea of Pulinski's theory," Hermione said, gesturing down at the snow as she continued. "Now, as for why I'm _less_ affected... that, I think, has everything to do with having spent so much time with a piece of You-Know-Who hanging around my neck. It was just as awful as you might expect, but it must have given me a sort of gradual exposure to the sort of environment we now have on the seventh floor. I'd be really curious to see how Harry or Ron would handle it."

"I suppose we should organize a formal experiment," Neville chuckled.

"We actually should," Hermione told him seriously.

"I think I'll stick with my greenhouses, thanks," Neville said, humour colouring his tone.

"Your loss," Hermione replied, looking over to give him a good-natured smile.

"And on that note... I'm actually going to go this way, pop by said greenhouses to see Professor Sprout before I talk to the Headmistress and get settled in."

"Well then... I guess... I'll go see if I can have a word with her about my living situation..."

"Brilliant!"

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at Neville's sudden, buoyant grin. "No promises, but I'll see what she says."

"I have a very good feeling I'll be seeing you in the guest wing later."

Hermione let out a huff of amusement at his certainty and smiled warmly at him. "See you."

"As they say in France— _à bientôt_!"

Hermione let out another little huff of fond amusement as she returned Neville's parting wave.

His pronunciation wasn't half-bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the overall summary for this story, as I felt the tone of the old one really applied more to the first four chapters, and that it was high time to give the story a blurb that fit better with the direction I am taking it in. I've also modified one of the existing tags, and will likely add more considering some of the things that occurred in this chapter, but given that adding things now would have removed from the surprise, well... :)
> 
> My excuse this time for the extended gulf between chapters is that I made the decision in March to take a trip to Japan this August, and so have been obsessively planning and studying since then in preparation. Which is to say, there will not be another update until September at the earliest. Which I guess with my track record is... almost normal? Yeesh.
> 
> I'm hugely appreciative of any love or comments you'd like to leave me about this latest chapter (or theories—I love a good theory!), and if you'd like to get in contact with me or check up on my progress, my Dreamwidth (under this same username) would be the place to do it!
> 
> See you all again in a few months!
> 
> \- Bore
> 
> Edit: I have slightly modified Hermione's theory at the end of the chapter to make her own idea clearer, as the wording made it sound as though she had never come across Pulinski's (from chapter 5). Entirely my blunder, not Hermione's. :p


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